


When the Land Withers

by a_dusky_gold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Blood Magic, Body Horror, Bottom Dean, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Darkness, Dom/sub Undertones, Epic Battles, Fantastic Racism, First Blade, Food Shortage, Guard!Balthazar, Guard!Benny, High Fantasy, Internalized racism, Kinky Magic Sex, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Light/Dark Duality, Lunar Eclipse, M/M, Magic Ceremonies, Magic and Science, Magic experiments, Magic-Users, Magical Artifacts, Mark of Cain, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Necromancers, Paladin!Castiel, Paladins, Princess!Charlie, Prophecy, Scientist!Eileen, Smut is at the end though, Spanking, Spirits, Switch Castiel, Switch Dean, Sword of Michael, Top Castiel, librarian!sam, light and dark, necromancer!dean, seances, sun and moon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 17:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 104,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11513928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_dusky_gold/pseuds/a_dusky_gold
Summary: "Every land has a history, every empire a conquest. Every kingdom also has a border - lines on a map that can easily be drawn out on a scroll with a quill and an ink. But what of the borders of the mind? Of the human heart? What of families separated by the lines of black ink, what of lovers split by mere drawings?"A death in the palace sends High Paladin Castiel of Viridia to the Witherlands in search of answers. Populated by the Fallen people who were once banished from his own home, Castiel comes face to face with the Necromancer, Dean Winchester, and his enigmatic brother, Sam, both of whom save his life and join his quest.But there’s an ancient secret hiding within the walls of the palace itself. A conspiracy that is as old as Viridia, that dates back to the creation of the Witherlands, is unfolding and Castiel and Dean will have to unravel it or risk losing not only their newfound relationship, but their entire world as they know it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whooowheee... I knew this was gonna be a longfic when I claimed the piece, but I wasn't expecting to go as big as it... Why brain why. XD 
> 
> Collaborating with [iouii](http://iouii.tumblr.com/) has been amazing, check out the Tumblr masterpost and the GORGEOUS [art!](http://iouii.tumblr.com/post/162946766466/when-the-land-withers-author-dusky-gold-artist) Credit also to [iouii](http://iouii.tumblr.com/) for giving me the inspiration for the basis of the fic - you can blame her for the hotness that is Paladin!Cas and Necromancer!Dean. :P
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my new beta, [Xue_Lang](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Xue_Lang), who jumped on to the train at the last moment and has been editing left, right and center! She's not even all that into SPN, but she's been amazing, especially in the absence of my usual betas. 
> 
> And last, thanks to the mods for putting this together and giving me an extension when I needed it. I know I'm coming back to play in this verse; I'm also going to edit this fic again in a couple months, since I basically wrote the whole thing within two months and I'm sure there are mistakes... oh well. Expect timestamps forthcoming!

**Prologue**

Every land has a history, every empire a conquest. Every kingdom also has a border - lines on a map that can easily be drawn out on a scroll with quill and ink. But what of the borders of the mind? Of the human heart? What of families separated by the lines of black ink, what of lovers split by mere drawings? 

My name is Naomi, and this is my story. This is the story of Viridia - a single land, split by a single line, drawn in a moment of rage by one brother, with the darkness of black ink that blots the scroll it lies on even today. The line was as arbitrary as the fury that drove him, as solid as the love he carried in his heart for his younger brother - it became the line that split Viridia into the Capital and the Witherlands. 

I could only  watch as the two boys I raised turned on one another. I didn't give birth to them, didn't carry  them in my womb, haven’t felt them move or kick me from within. Yet I have loved them from the moment I met them, from the moment my late husband, Cain, placed a squirming six-year old Michael in my arms, from the second Lucifer’s intelligent blue eyes gazed up at me from my lap. 

Michael… strong and courageous, his father’s pride and joy, the apple of my eye. He was a Prince the Empire could be proud of, a Prince who would lead us to victory, who would bring untold glory to our people. His destiny had long been foretold - he would transform Viridia into a Capital of power and untold strength. 

The soothsayer promised me, insisted that my first child would build a legacy that would last for centuries. She did not mention, however, the cost of this legacy - the bloodshed and the anger and the rage. 

The Capital is built on the remnants of a mother’s broken heart and a brother’s rage - for Michael left Lucifer behind, allowed his fear to blind him, and I couldn't do anything as my second child was banished into a barren land, into the darkness where he supposedly belongs. 

Lucifer… my golden, rebellious, restless child. Blessed with a power that would terrify anyone, cursed with an ability that made him stronger than everyone else… Lucifer of the Veil, his followers called him. Lucifer, who derived his powers from the Goddess… If Michael’s glory was that of the Sun, then Lucifer’s mysterious power was that of the Moon. 

Can the Sun and the Moon exist together? At the same time, in the same country? 

I believed they could.

I was wrong. 

I could never truly be a mother - I loved them, I will always love them, but the duties of Queen leave little room for the joys of motherhood. Perhaps that was why they turned to my brother, their uncle. After my husband’s death, I became busy with governance. 

Metatron could show them the affection I could scarce afford to display. If I had known then that he would poison Michael’s mind against Lucifer, if I had guessed that he would breed fear and anger and rage in my sons… perhaps I might have stopped them. But I didn’t. 

And Michael came to believe that Lucifer’s power, his ability to speak to those who have passed, his ability to connect with our beloved beyond the Veil of Death, was evil. 

Magic is not evil; it is simply a tool with which one can shape the world. Just as the quill and ink drew the borders to make and break Viridia, magic too is simply a medium to make or break things. 

At sixteen, Lucifer had the love of his brother carved into his arm - because Michael did love his brother once. This, I know, for I have seen the tears my son thinks he hides from the world at night, when he mourns the brother he banished. 

At twenty-five, that Mark turned dark from the rage and betrayal Lucifer felt had been inflicted upon him. The crest of my husband, the Mark of Cain… once a token of love between brothers, now a curse Lucifer carries. 

For Metatron’s snaky whisper led Michael into battling his brother. War broke out in Viridia; Lucifer took all of his kind, all with powers of the Veil along  with him, and Michael gathered all those with the powers of Life to his side. Both killed, both destroyed, and blood flowed like water in the Capital they had built with their own hands. 

Life and Death collided in this battle of Sun and Moon - Viridia became a gravesite of holy wrath. I could only watch helplessly; neither would listen to me. Michael believed that I was too blinded by my love of Lucifer to see the root of evil within him. Lucifer held me responsible for loving Michael more than I loved him. 

How was I to defend myself? How could I possibly apologize for leaving them to their own devices, for letting my power-hungry brother take charge of their upbringing? 

Lucifer was not evil then; he did not turn evil even when the war broke out and he had to use magic to kill. For how could he be blamed, when it was Michael who started the battle, who forced him to defend himself? 

Michael defeated him. Lucifer lost. 

And the loss turned him evil - the choice to stab his brother, to steal his kingdom through underhanded means… that turned him dark. He killed for pleasure, and the dominion he held over Death inverted itself. He was now its prisoner, chained to the Mark - where it once was a Mark of love, given freely, now, it became a Mark to choke him into acquiescence, a Mark to serve as a reminder of  Michael’s fear and Lucifer’s own anger. 

The Mark of Cain, indeed - what a legacy my husband left behind! 

I could only cry silently as my elder child banished my younger to the cold desert that lay just beyond the Capital. I could only watch as Michael’s hand dipped the quill into the black ink and drew the borders strong, I could only watch as the lines marking the Capital from the Witherlands and Viridia broke forever, along with my own heart. 

I could only watch, wishing I would turn blind as the soothsayer, who could see the future, and yet, see nothing at all. 

Mothers and fathers cursed me - when Lucifer left, he took with him their sons and daughters, leaving behind families as broken as my own. I couldn't stop them; I was Queen, but a Queen who loses the respect of her people is no Queen, but a mere figurehead. 

I returned to the soothsayer. 

I begged, I pleaded, I cried - I behaved in all manners inappropriate for a Queen. But I had little care; for once, I wished to be a mother and not a Queen. Had I been the mother I was meant to be, the mother I promised I would become when I married Cain, perhaps… perhaps my sons would not be broken. Perhaps Viridia would not be broken - perhaps I might have been able to stop the drawing of those borders that have torn other families apart. 

The soothsayer couldn't do anything - she had no powers, other than that of the Sight. At my insistence, she looked and then looked again, into the future, into what would be. Michael and Lucifer, she said, were done - their tales had come to an end, their legacies and destinies fulfilled. 

My sons would never reunite. 

I was in anguish. “Why?” I screamed, “What must I do?” 

There were no answers. 

When at last I regained coherence, I asked her if there was nothing I could do for the people of Viridia. The mother, it seems, will always lose to the Queen I must be - ‘tis the burden of a leader. 

She couldn't offer me a solution, but she gave me something else, something more precious than that. 

She gave me hope. 

The scroll that she handed me contained a painting in it - _ a vision,  _ she said, that she had seen. A vision of a future where the Sun and the Moon would tend to the Crown as one. Michael and Lucifer were broken, but Viridia could be healed. The Mark could be restored to one of love, instead of imprisonment. 

I rejoiced. 

“But beware,” she warned me, “treachery lies afoot. There’s a snake in your midst, a snake you must tread carefully around.” 

“Tell me,” I demanded, “Tell me what you see.” 

“I see many things, Milady,” she muttered. “The future… it is not set in stone. There is more than one future for Viridia - either she will permanently be severed or the borders will forever vanish.” 

I was terrified. Two more paintings, she handed to me, with vivid images of what she described clearly etched out in color. In the midst of it all sits a red-haired young queen, and I cannot help but wonder who she is, this young girl who shares my blood. Pitted against her stands a short, stout man, the miasma of dark magic rendering his face ugly. 

He will be her greatest enemy, I knew without telling, just as my brother has turned out to be mine. 

“He remains hidden to me,” the soothsayer whispered. “I know not who he is, but he will change the course of Viridia’s history forever.” 

I thanked her, returned to the palace. It mattered not what threat lay ahead in the future; I knew what I must do now. I went to my brother’s room and confronted him. 

“How could you even think I would hurt my own nephews?” he cried out to me in protest. “How could you believe that I would want to cause harm to them?”

“Then why did you allow Michael to banish Lucifer?” I demanded. “Why would you advise him to be wary of his own brother?” 

“Because Lucifer was evil, sister!” he answered, his eyes gleaming maniacally, “Powers such as his… the dead must stay dead. What light magic allows you to look beyond the Veil that is the force of all Life?” 

“Lucifer was not evil, brother,” I whispered, “You made him that way. ‘Twas not his powers, but the choices he made that trapped him to the Mark.” 

“Your love for your son has blinded you, my dear,” he taunted me. And looking at him, watching the sneer on his face… I knew what Michael felt when he banished his younger brother out of the Capital. 

Like mother, like son indeed. 

“I cast you out,” I said quietly. “I cast you out!” 

I killed him then, driving my sword into his stout form without mercy. Michael had given his brother a semblance of life, gifted him the barren desert that was on the other side of Viridia. I refused to do even that - Metatron destroyed everything my boys worked so hard for and he could no longer be allowed to cause any harm. I killed him, allowing myself no feeling. 

For I am no longer a mother, a sister, or a wife - I am Queen, and now, I must exist only for my people. 

And ‘tis for those very people that I write this letter. I know not of the evil the soothsayer promised. I know not of the man who means to harm my home. My sons are gone - all I have is hope that Viridia might be one again, that the lines might blur and eventually disappear, that the people of the Capital shall once again accept the people of the Witherlands. 

I am old, in the last  years of my life. I leave behind this scroll with the prophecy - perhaps the visions the soothsayer illustrated will come to life after I am long gone. If they do, then I pray that the first vision - of the red-haired queen in her throne - is the one that comes true.  

Whoever finds this… please, I beg of you. ‘Tis not magic, but the use of it that turns a person evil. Michael’s light magic was of the Sun, Lucifer of the Moon - neither were corrupted by magic, but by their own choices. 

Find the people of the Witherlands. Bring them home - they are not wrong, they are not evil. They are not our enemies. 

Make a new map, a new Viridia. Make the vision come true. I know not who the people in this vision are, but if you are one of them, please… bring my people back together.

Then, and only then, will my spirit - the spirit of a broken mother, the spirit of a Queen whose people are just as broken - rest in peace. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [iouii](http://iouii.tumblr.com/) for the suggestion of the word 'Dorcha' for the station I wanted to give Dean. It means 'dark' in Gaelic, which I thought was a nice fit with the fic's symmetric mythology

**Chapter 1**

Castiel was sitting at his desk, going through the accounts of their newest recruits and training regimen, when the knocks came. He looked up, startled, cursing as his glasses slipped off of his face, pushing them up back onto his nose with an annoyed grunt before getting to his face. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he grabbed a blanket from the bed to wrap around his naked shoulders, shivering.

The knocking grew louder, more pronounced and urgent and Castiel shrugged into the blanket with a worried frown.

"Your Grace!" boomed Balthazar's voice from beyond the big oak doors. Castiel's scowl deepened - as High Paladin of the Capital, he was often summoned quite late into the night, but this was the first time that Princess's personal guard himself had come to call on him.

If Her Highness wanted his attention, she never sent a messenger. This was official business, then, and a serious one at that.    

"Lord Castiel, please hurry, your presence is required immediately," Balthazar sounded strangely disturbed, and Castiel bit back a curse as the blanket slipped around his shoulders. Huffing, he yanked it back onto his shoulders, bumped his glasses up onto his nose and stalked across the room to the doors.

"Lord Castiel-"

Castiel threw the doors open, glowering lightly. Balthazar stood with his hand raised, ready to continue banging.

"Your Grace!" he grabbed the High Paladin's arm and pulled him into the doorway. Castiel yelped, glaring at him and yanking his hand back.

"What's going on, Balthazar?" he demanded. "Why the rush?"

"Please, Your Grace," the guard pleaded and Castiel blinked; Balthazar was one of the most cocky men at the castle.

Something was seriously wrong.

"What is it?" he asked gravely. Balthazar paused, metting his eyes squarely.

"You need to see this for yourself, mate," he muttered. "And I guarantee you're not gonna like it."

Castiel swallowed, nodding. "Lead the way, then," he said, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Balthazar whirled around on his foot and raced down the hallway, Castiel following hurriedly. The stone archways seemed to loom high before them in the dark; the lanterns lighting the hallway cast dancing shadows on the opposite side.

The dark-haired man stiffened as he realized where they were headed.

"Balthazar!" he snapped, neither of them slowing. "Why are we going to the Altar?"

Balthazar barely spared him a passing glance. "You'll see," he said in a low voice as he led him through the winding corridor and into the Altar of the Sun, where Castiel - along with the rest of his Paladins - worshipped and led service everyday. The Altar remained opened at all times to the citizens of Viridia, a practice that Castiel himself had instituted with the Princess's permission, so that their people could come and pray as they wished.

The Altar was empty, not surprising considering the hour of night. Outside, Castiel could hear the drum-drum of the rain as it beat down against the grass and he knew what he was going to see before he saw it.

On the far end of the Altar, stood two huge, imposing doors. The doors were a majesty unto themselves - massive and looming, they had millions of runes carved onto them for protection, for prayer, and for power. They were the doors to the Inner Sanctum - Castiel had seen them nearly everyday of his life since joining the ranks of the Paladins, but they never failed to take his breath away.

But that wasn't what made him pause now.

The doors were _open._

Worse, he could sense magic - strange magic seeping out of the room.

He stumbled to a standstill, grabbing Balthazar's arm and glaring at him fiercely.

"What's the meaning of this?" he growled. "That door can't be open, not without my permission. And I certainly do not remember allowing anyone to enter past the evening service."

The Altar of the Sun was a sacred space, where the citizens came to pray and hold court with one another and the Lord. But it did more than that - it housed the magic of the kingdom, the magic of Life itself.

As High Paladin, it was Castiel's duty to protect this magic. The Inner Sanctum was where he held court - no _one_ except the High Paladin could enter the Inner Sanctum, no one except him could use magic in front of the Sword that King Michael had drawn the borders of Viridia with. And even Castiel had to undergo purification rituals before he could do such a thing.

The doors were always closed; to the best of Castiel's knowledge, no one other than the High Paladin had ever been inside, the keys passed down through the position over the centuries.

Only now, the doors were open, and someone else was using magic inside - some strange magic, powerful and strong, and so very, very _wrong_.

Castiel could feel the wrongness - he could feel the Sword calling to him, feel it resist the pull of this dark magic.

"What?" he hissed furiously through gritted, "The bloody blazes is going on here?"

Balthazar refused to meet his gaze.

"Tell me," he snapped, "Who dares to infringe on a space as sacred as this? Who would dare to perform magic there, dark magic? _Who_ , Balthazar?"

"Please, Your Grace," Balthazar repeated, "Look for yourself."

He waved his arm towards the Sanctum, and Castiel growled, stomping into room, reaching out with his magic to feel his way around cautiously.

 _Forgive me,_ he prayed, ignoring the slight pang of guilt for not purifying himself before the Sword. He raced forward, allowing his light magic to coat every inch of the room, to fill it with the warmth the Sanctum was meant to be -

\- only to be pushed back by the dark, oily threads of angry, bitter magic which fought with his own.

Castiel gritted his teeth, forcing himself forward; the magic kicked back, its scaly power encompassing his own, biting into his bright, blue-white aura. Behind his eyes, he could see the crimson-black dotting itself over his own navy-colored power and he growled under his breath, refusing to back down.

"This is _my_ Sanctum," he snarled, "You will not defile it with your foul presence!"

He cursed himself for leaving his caduceus back in his chambers in his hurry. Closing his eyes, he allowed his magic to burn, to whip through him - he didn’t have time to draw a sigil, the darkness was here, he had to push it out _now -_

\- he was nothing but a conduit for Life, nothing but pure thought and intent -

Lightning flashed, momentarily rendering the Sanctum bright -

The magic burned, and Castiel _pushed -_

"Begone!" he thundered, throwing his arms up, summoning all the power of the Life that he could -

_\- snap._

The darkness vanished, taking with it the black tendrils of corruption that was desecrating the Altar.

Castiel fell to his knees, breathing heavily, his vision blurry from the exertion of magic. He hadn’t ever felt power as strong as that; his heart was beating from more than just overextending himself. His head pounded, the salty-bitter taste on his tongue almost too much to bear. It was almost unheard of to use magic without a sigil; his ability to do it (not without considerable cost to himself) was one of the reasons why he’d been chosen to take over post of High Paladin.

A soft groan caught his attention and he looked up, brows furrowed. His gaze fell upon the Sword, still glowing within the rock it rested within. King Michael had, in anger, struck the rock with it centuries ago - he’d never been able to pull it out, for his soul had forever been darkened by rage and twisted by loss. Only one with a pure heart could pull and use the Sword of Life - it would not be tainted by so twisted a feeling as anger.

Relief pounded through Castiel’s veins; the Sword was unharmed, the emerald on its pommel still glowing a Viridian green. As he heaved a sigh of relief, his eyes fell on the prone form, lying in between Castiel and the Sword. He struggled to his feet, staggering forward to see who it was that dared to defile the Altar in such a manner.

It was a young man, barely out of his teens, dressed in the familiar white robes of one of the castle Paladins. His eyes were crossed, unseeing, and Castiel’s blood ran cold at the sight of him.

This wasn’t just one of his Paladins.

“Sam-Samandriel,” Castiel choked, heart stuttering to a stop at the sight of his own apprentice. “ _Samandriel Alford_ , how dare you… how co-could…” his voice died, because this was _his_ student, the young lad he took under _his_ wing.

How could this be?

Samandriel was _good_ \- his magic had been as light as he’d ever felt. Castiel personally chose him out of group of twenty young men, to train, to teach and to bring into the service of the Sun God.

How could his own student defile the sanctity of the Altar this way?

“Ca-Cas,” Samandriel choked. Castiel crawled over to him, his mind a confusing mix of anger and disbelief; this _couldn't_ be, this _wasn’t_ happening, Samandriel was _good_ -

“Cas,” he gasped again, and urgency drew the High Paladin closer, grabbing his hand. Whatever it was, Samandriel was dying - he could see it, feel the Life draining from him.

The Sword’s emerald hilt glowed, blinking once, twice and then a third time. Castiel understood it for it was - a warning. Life was draining, Death was entering a place where only life should be.

He pulled Samandriel’s head into his lap.

“Ca-Cas,” he whispered, “I didn't… it wasn’t… I-I-”

The words died on his lips as the Life drained away from his apprentice, once bright blue eyes now lifeless and glassy. A sob tore itself from Castiel’s lips - Samandriel was gone.

What answer would he give to the grandmother who had raised her boy single handedly after his parents had given their lives for Viridia’s army? How could he possibly explain to her?

How could he explain it to himself?

His apprentice had defiled the Sanctum, had brought dark magic to a place of Life and light. He’d desecrated the Altar of the Sun God, and yet, all Castiel - the High Paladin - could do was mourn him.

“Samandriel,” he keened, hugging the small face to his bare chest. The blanket had long since fallen away, leaving him cold and bereft in just his night trousers.

“Sa-Samandriel,” he sobbed, “Why, Alfie? Why would you do this? Why, why _why?”_

“It wasn’t Alfie, Castiel,” came a soft, feminine voice. Castiel’s head whipped around to see a small redhead standing behind him, at the doorway to the Inner Sanctum, still unwilling to enter without his express permission.

“Yo-your Highness,” he stammered, still cradling Samandriel’s form in his arms. “You shouldn't be here.”

Princess Charlie’s smile was sad and tired. She tilted her head towards Samandriel, silently asking to be let in and Castiel nodded, turning back to his dead apprentice, grief sitting heavy in his chest.

“Samandriel is dead on my account, Castiel,” she murmured, “I must be here.”

Castiel’s neck hurt as he whipped up to glare at her again. His confusion must have shown on his face, for Charlie sighed and fell to her knees next to him. Before he could ask, she took Samandriel’s cooling hands in her own and pressed it to her face, tears filling her wide, hazel eyes.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, rocking back and forth on her knees. “You have done well, my brave soldier. Rest now.”

Reaching over, she closed Samandriel’s unseeing eyes. Castiel froze as she leveled a bleary gaze at him, lower lip trembling but the expression on her face as determined and strong as he’d ever seen.

“What the blazes is happening here, Princess?” he demanded, anger and grief twisting hot in his chest. In front of him, the Sword, sensing his discomfort, blinked once in warning and Castiel sighed, closing his eyes to breathe in deeply, trying to fall into the centered calm that he’d been living in since becoming High Paladin.

Only peace was allowed within the sanctity of the Sword of Life - even the High Paladin couldn't cross that boundary. Without his usual purification rituals, he wasn’t able to find that peace.

Breathing out slowly, he opened his eyes to see Charlie watching him with knowing eyes, looking ancient for her eighteen years.

“We must speak, Your Grace,” she tilted her head, adhering to the formality he’d addressed her with. “Please meet me in my chambers immediately.”

“I must purify the Sanctum and the Altar first,” he told her, “Bury Alfie…” he looked down at his apprentice, misery threatening to choke his breathe. Breathing in through his mouth, he continued, “I must break the news to his ailing grandmother.”

“I shall come with you,” Charlie answered. “Purify the Sanctum, and then we shall both head to his home.”

“Princess,” he protested, “You cannot-”

“I can and I will, Cas,” Charlie interrupted, reverting to their camaraderie, “This is on me. I’m the reason Samandriel is dead.”

She swallowed hard, bending down to press a kiss to Samandriel’s cold forehead.

“What’s happening Charlie?” Castiel asked quietly. She looked up with a pale, determined face and suddenly, the High Paladin was struck by how _old_ she seemed.

A decade older than her, Castiel had watched over her as she stumbled about the castle, scraped her knees and laughed with her entire heart, her apple-colored hair flying in the winds as her pale cheeks flushed with life. When did she grow up ?

“My chambers, Cas,” she muttered. “Not here.”

She leveled him with a look that meant business and Castiel sighed, tilting his head in acquiescence.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he replied.

*-*-*

Purifying the Inner Sanctum took Castiel the rest of the night. Dawn's rays were painting the distant skies a pale pink by the time he finally set his caduceus down. Sighing, he knelt in front of the Sword again, bowing his head low.

"What is happening?" he murmured. "My apprentice defiled this place, and yet, my instinct tells me... Samandriel was but a pawn, wasn't he?"

He looked up to see the Sword remain silent, not even a pulse in response. But he didn't need an answer; sometimes, just asking the questions out loud was hard enough.

With another sigh, he pushed himself to his knees and headed out, bracing himself for the visit to Missouri Moseley's home. He refused to let himself linger over it as he quickly drew on trousers and his formal robes; Samandriel and his grandmother deserved nothing less than ceremonial for this.

Castiel's throat tightened at the sight of Princess Charlie waiting for him right in front of the stables. She was frowning, absently patting her horse; Balthazar was nowhere to be seen and he wondered where the guard was - Charlie never went anywhere without him.

"Your Grace," she greeted him, straightening up and he offered her a nod.

"You're certain you wish to do this?" he asked softly. "This isn't going to be easy, Charlie."

She refused to meet his gaze, instead looking at Gilda's liquid eyes and gently stroking her horse's long face. The pure white beast neighted and bumped her cheek and Charlie sighed, shrugging.

"It's my duty, Cas," she muttered. "Samandriel... his death is my fault."

"Explain that to me," he demanded tersely.

She spared him barely a glance as she moved to Gilda's side, mounting the horse with ease that came of years of practice.

"Not here," she said. "I promise, I'll tell you, but first..." she tilted her head towards his own horse, "we have a grandmother's heart to break."

Castiel pursed his lips, jumping onto Camry, riding ahead to catch up with the princess.

"And what will you tell her?" he asked. "Missouri deserves to know why her grandson lies dead in our morgue."

She didn't answer, instead just kicking her heels against Gilda's flank to push her into a gallop. Castiel sighed for what felt like the hundredth time this morning and urged Camry into a following run of her own.

It took them about twenty minutes to arrive at Missouri Moseley's home. The dark-skinned old woman had made the small hut with her own hands after she lost her son to the Witherlands soon after Samandriel's birth. An ailing daughter-in-law and a newborn grandson to look after, the gritty woman had come to the Capital and taken on the burden of being the breadwinner; Samandriel's mother lost to the sickness within days of their arrival and Missouri was left with a child to care for in her old years.

She'd given everything for her grandson. How was he going to tell her that he too was now lost to her?

Charlie jumped off of her horse, quickly tying Gilda to the fence. For a long moment, she stood absolutely still, her bony shoulders rigid and imposing. Castiel jumped off of his own horse, walking over to place his hand on her elbow, squeezing gently.

“Your Highness?” he called. She straightened up, raising a hand to her face, and Castiel turned his gaze away respectfully as she wiped her tears and looked up at him.

“This is… Samandriel’s grandmother’s house?” she asked hoarsely.

He nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tucking him into his side. She didn’t protest, allowing him to steer her towards the door, twining her arm with his. A part of him noted absently how much she’d grown taller since the last time they’d walked arm-in-arm like this.

“Missouri,” he told her, “her name is Missouri Moseley.”

She nodded bravely and held her hand out to knock on the coarse wooden door when it was yanked open, an imposing woman standing there with a glare on her face.

“Samandriel,” she said urgently, grabbing Charlie’s hand, “Where’s my baby?”

“Missouri,” Castiel began, rushing forward to pull Charlie back, but the dark woman refused to let go, a frantic expression on her face.

“Samandriel,” she cried, “Where’s my grandson? Where is he?”

“Miss Moseley,” Charlie said softly, “Samandriel is…”

She whirled back around to glare at the princess.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, dropping Charlie’s hand and grabbing her chest. “Isn't he?”

Castiel shared a startled look with Charlie, who swallowed and stepped forward.

“Yes,” she murmured shakily, “Miss Moseley, your grandson is…”

“Dead,” she finished weakly. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked back into her hut, leaving the door open.

“Cas?” Charlie asked confusedly. He shrugged, grabbing her hand and pulling her to his side again. Without another word, they followed her inside, stopping dead in their tracks when they saw her fall to her knees in front of the small table.

“Samandriel,” she keened, “My baby… my… oh my baby… what do I live for now, Lord?” her entire form shook and she buried her face in her arms, sobbing.

Charlie slipped out of Castiel’s grip and rushed to her, wrapping small arms around the much bigger woman’s form. He hissed, but she refused to move back and he let her be with a sigh, marveling at the way her eighteen year old self was holding up the sixty year old woman.

“Why?” Missouri screamed, “Why, why, why?”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“He… he was all I had,” she whimpered. “My last love… Samandriel, my baby… my poor baby.”

Castiel reached forward, gently winding his arms around both women, holding them close, finally closing his eyes against the hot wetness that stung them. Whatever happened, Samandriel had been his apprentice, practically his child - he hurt with her, he hurt to lose him. He could feel Charlie’s tears wet his chest, Missouri holding onto him tightly as though he was the only thing holding her up.

For a long while, the three of them stayed that way, crying into each other’s shoulders, mourning the passing of a young life that was snuffed out far too early. It was Missouri who finally pushed them away, sniffling quietly and stumbling to her feet.

“How?” she asked softly. “How did he die?”

“Missouri,” Castiel began and she whirled around to glare at him.

“ _You_ ,” she hissed, “You promised you’d keep him safe, boy. You told me - you swore.”

The High Paladin simply lowered his head, accepting the accusation. He couldn't say anything to defend himself - he _had_ sworn, and somehow, he’d gone wrong. If Samandriel was the one behind the darkness in the Inner Sanctum, it was still his fault; he hadn’t taught his apprentice to choose the right path, hadn’t imparted the wisdom of making the right choice.

Samandriel’s blood was on his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in a raw, throaty voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t bring him back,” Missouri’s own voice broke. “Sorry… sorry is no good.”

“It was my fault,” Charlie cut in. castiel darted a look at her; she was pale, tear-tracks fresh on her face, but her expression was determined.

Missouri turned to her. “What?” she said faintly.

“Samandriel was on a mission for me, Miss Moseley,” she confessed. “I asked him to look into something for me and…” she looked away, gulping. “I should’ve known it was too dangerous, I should’ve ordered him not to-”

She fell silent, wiping her tears.

“You wouldn't have been able to stop him,” Missouri said quietly. “If Samandriel made up his mind…” her eyes filled again and she pursed her lips, trembling.

“I promise you, Missouri,” Charlie said suddenly. “I promise you… I’ll find whoever did this and I will bring them to justice.”

“As will I,” Castiel added.

Missouri heaved a deep sigh, clutching her breast, rocking back and forth. “I’ll hold you to that promise. When he didn't come home last night, when I saw you ride up today…”

“You knew,” Charlie whispered. “You guessed.”

“Oh my boy, my beautiful boy,” she keened in answer, heaving for breath.

It was a long time before they could do anything other than weep.

*-*-*

Charlie remained silent on their way back to the castle. Castiel let her be, knowing her well enough to know when she needed space. The mid-morning sun beat down on them; summer was well on its way and the High Paladin breathed in deeply, enjoying the light breeze. Birds chirped in the distance, and the glades had never looked as alive as they did right now - golden light bounced off grass, the trees dancing to the summer winds.

Abruptly, his breath stopped. Samandriel was _dead_ \- an old woman was now bereft of the only hope she’d ever had. How could he possibly be happy at a time like this?

Pushing away the uncharitable thought, Castiel exhaled slowly, trying to find the calm that came naturally after years of training to be a paladin.

“Cas?” Charlie’s soft, tremor-filled voice pulled him out of his musing and he turned to look at her. They were just coming up at the castle, almost at the gates and she paused, sighing deeply.

“Yes, Your Highness?” he tilted his head, waiting.

She smiled wanly. “Is it always like that?” she asked. “The weight of responsibility…”

Castiel’s heart ached and he jumped off his horse, petting Camry’s head before stepping over to Gilda. He held both his arms out, and at Charlie’s nod, wrapped them around her waist and lifted her off the saddle just as easily as he used to do when she was a fresh-faced sprite and he was a paladin-in-training, teaching her how to ride.

“It is,” he told her. “It never gets easier.”

Because paladins were as much warriors as they were priests and spellcasters, this wasn’t the first time Castiel had had to bear the responsibility of a fallen soldier. The burden never lightened; knowing that he had thousands of men and women under his command was something he’d been grappling with since the day he’d taken over the post of High Paladin.

Charlie had it worse - as the only child of the late King and Queen, she was heir to the throne. As soon as she turned twenty, she would be crowned Queen and the current Regent, Lord Marv would step down.

She could no longer be a child.

And as proud as he was of the woman she was becoming, Castiel also ached to soothe her burden; heavy indeed, is the head that bears the crown.

Gently, he pulled her close, savoring the way she tucked herself into him - once, these moments of comfort and friendship had come easy between them. Now, he was High Paladin and she was officially crowned Heir; being caught in public like this would instantly cause rumors to spread.

“It doesn’t get easier,” he repeated, pulling back and patting her shoulder, “And you should never want it to. If you do… something’s wrong, then.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, blinking lightly before sighing and untangling herself from him.

“You’re my big brother, you know that, right Cas?” she muttered with a soft smile.

“Indeed, Your Highness,” he replied. “As you are my younger sister. Which is why I’m wondering what mission you sent _my_ apprentice on without my knowledge.”

Her smile turned rueful. “Like a dog with a bone,” she grunted, and he tilted his head but didn't deny the accusation.

“You’ve never not come to me with a problem before,” he pointed out. “And Samandriel was _my_ student.”

He wasn’t hurt exactly; he was the High Paladin and she was the Princess, and he knew where his loyalties and duties lay. He knew that there were things she couldn't necessarily share with him, knew that she held State and Royal Secrets she needed to protect.

He’d just never felt the distance between their official positions this keenly before today. Castiel and Charlie had grown up together, in these very castle walls, he the apprentice of the former High Paladin who had no family, and she the princess who had no one except her cold Regent of an Uncle and a tutor to keep her company. Two orphans, banding together… how the time had flown by.

“I never meant for him to get caught up in this, Cas,” she said. Turning around, she quickly secured Gilda, patting her horse down. Castiel moved to do the same with Camry, and a moment later, the two of them were walking side-by-side towards the castle.

“I found something,” she looked around furtively and Castiel’s brow furrowed. “I…” she paused, hesitating, and he sighed.

Reaching into his robes, he pulled out his caduceus, quickly tracing out the sigil for _privacy_ into the air in front of them. A wave of magic pulsed, and a moment later, he felt the barrier fall into place around them.

“We’re alone,” he said quietly. “No one can hear anything you say till I remove the spell.”

Charlie deflated before his eyes, shoulders sagging as she heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Charlie?” he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned on him for a second. Worry gnawed at his stomach like a hungry wolf - what had her so disturbed?

“My mother didn't just die in battle, Cas,” she whispered.

“What?”

 _She was shaking,_ he was startled to realize, and tightened his arms around her.

“Mother didn't die in battle,” she repeated. “She was killed.”

“Yeah, by a Necromancer,” he said in confusion.

Castiel himself had been too young to remember much of the late Queen Gertrude, Charlie barely out of her diapers when she fell in battle, defending Viridia against a force from the Witherlands. She had already been ruling without her husband for over six months by then, strong and defiant in the face of her opposers.

Her death had catapulted the hostility between the Witherlands and Viridia into out-and-out hatred; for centuries, the people of Viridia had tolerated the Necromancers and their kin living out of their borders like vultures, waiting to pounce. When news arrived that a Necromancer had attacked the Queen and her party when she’d been visiting the village on the edge of Viridia, everyone had risen up in anger. The people had called for strict action against the Witherlands - borders were shut down, trade was restricted and the Necromancers were heavily policed.

He remembered his old mentor riding out there constantly to make sure peace talks didn’t break out into fights; Joshua had refused to take a young Castiel with him, no matter how much he’d begged to see the Witherlands. The talks themselves had carried on for close to five years - by the time Marv had shut the borders down, the hostility between the two peoples had become almost unbearable.

“ _No_ ,” Charlie interrupted urgently. “I found a scroll. A missive. From the Regent.”

He stumbled to a stop, staring at her, not comprehending. “What?” he sputtered. “What missive?”

“The Regent didn't like my mother, Cas,” she said, stepping back. “He had her killed.”

“ _Charlie_ !” he snapped, “Do you have _any_ idea what you’re even saying? He’s your uncle - your mother’s _brother_!”

“You think I don’t know that?” she hissed back. “Ever since I found the scroll… I’ve been going mad! If I’m right, my own uncle killed my mother - had her _murdered_. How… how am I supposed to live with that?”

Her voice broke and her eyes filled. Castiel continued to stare at her uncomprehendingly, eyes wide, because this couldn't…. This wasn't possible, this _couldn't_ -

“I was stupid,” she continued hoarsely, “I left the missive lying around in my room while I went to confront my uncle. Samandriel found it, cut me off, and told me that I had to find proof before I went and accused him of having the Queen killed.”

“And you didn't think to come to _me_ with this?” Castiel hissed. “Charlie, Samandriel was a child, _you’re_ a child and it’s _my_ job to protect-”

“I was _scared_ , Cas!” she snarled. “I didn't know what to do. It seemed like a good idea at the time, sending Samandriel to find out what he could by getting close to Marv, but I didn't think… I didn't…” she trailed off, her voice breaking on the last word.

“Charlie-”

“He sent me something,” she murmured. “Just before he died. Asked me to come meet him in the Altar - that’s when I knew something was wrong. Alfie would never defile the Sanctum like that, so I suspected… I sent Baz to get you, because I knew whatever Alfie found, you’d wanna know.”

Breathing in deeply, Castiel sought the calm failing him - because the princess and his apprentice had been utterly _stupid_ and the latter had lost his life as a result. Whatever this was… it involved dark magic - Samandriel had gotten himself mixed up in something _dark_.

“He knew, Cas,” she grabbed his hands and squeezed them tightly. “Samandriel found something, I’m certain of it-”

“He’s _dead_ , Charlie!” he growled. “Because the both of you were reckless. If you’d come to me in the beginning, if you’d _told_ me-”

“I didn't know what to do, Castiel,” she cried. “I was terrfiied… I… my mother-”

“Charlie,” he said seriously. “Do you truly believe thway your own uncle killed her?”

He leveled her with a serious look and her lower lip trembled.

“You don't believe me,” she stated, dropping his hands like they were burning her and taking a step back. Castiel reached forward, but she batted him away, looking like that six year old whom he’d told he couldn't teach how to fight because she was too young.

“It’s just-” he began, “An accusation like this is serious, Charlie… Your mother’s death severed all ties between Viridia and the Witherlands. And accusing the _Regent_ of her murder… maybe you were mistaken, maybe the missive was - ”

“I’m not a child,” she retorted. “I know what I saw. It was a missive sent to the Regent, stating that the job was done, that the Queen was killed on his orders.”

“And why would Marv keep it around all these years? Why would you be able to find it so easily?” Castiel asked.

“I dunno how his sick mind works!” she threw her hands up. “That’s exactly why Alfie went in - to find out. He stopped me, asked me the same questions you’re asking now.”

She paused, breathing in deeply at the memory of their fallen friend. “He found something, Cas,” she whispered. “I know he did.”

“He’s _dead_ ,” he hissed. “We can't exactly ask him.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, looking away.

“What?” he demanded.

“We could,” she said quietly. “Ask him.”

Silence fell between them, uncomfortable and charged, for the space of one heartbeat, and then two and then a third, before Castiel’s mind caught up to what she was saying.

“No,” he said flatly. “Your Highness, you _cannot_ be serious-”

“Can you think of another way?” she challenged. “Like you said, we can't accuse Marv without proof. The missive went missing from my room just a day after I found it. I’ve dug into my mother’s death, but I can't find anything - what else do you suggest?”

“Literally anything else, Charlie!” he barked. “I can go undercover like Samandriel did, or I can whip up a truth potion to feed to the Regent and interrogate him. But this-”

“Because Marv trusts you _so_ much?” she retaliated. “He’s not unprotected, and he has magic of his own - he’s not gonna take anything from you, Cas, especially since he knows how loyal you are to the Crown!”

“Do you even know what you’re saying?” it was his turn to snarl.

 _They were attracting attention,_ he noted absently, arguing back and forth on the castle grounds like this. Their conversation maybe private, but they were still visible to all - Charlie was gesturing wildly and he himself wasn’t entirely rigid-stanced.

Grabbing her arm, he marched her into the little alcove before the big iron gates, pulling her close to himself. She hissed in protest, glaring at him, but he refused to let go of her.

“Charlie, what you’re suggesting is _dark_ magic,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s the same powers that got its users banished - it’s as dark as my magic is light.”

“Lucifer was banished for _murder_ , Cas,” she snapped back. “Not for the use of Necromancy. And Michael wasn’t exactly pure - he could never pull the Sword back out again, could he?”

“That isn't-”

“Magic itself isn't good or evil,” she insisted. “Weren’t you the one who told me I had to use what powers I had to help people? How is this any different?”

“Because your powers don't raise dead people, Charlie! Your power comes from your status, not magic-”

“And people still think I’m a spoiled princess _because_ I’m a princess,” she cut him off. “How much of the Necromancer’s powers have you actually felt, Cas? Just because they can speak to the dead, you can't call them dark-”

“I felt dark magic in the Sanctum,” he said tersely. “I know the difference between light and dark magic when I feel it and that was _not_ light power.”

“How do you know that comes from the Witherlands?” she hissed furiously. “Dark magic was in _Viridia_ , Cas, what do you say to that?”

He fell silent - because Charlie was absolutely right at that. In all honesty, Castiel had never met or felt a Necromancer’s magic before; he only knew what his tutors had passed down to him. And what he’d studied was the history of Viridia.

These were the simple facts - King Michael banished his younger brother, Lucifer, whose powers had turned him dark. Instead of calling upon on the Dead to serve Life, he’d chosen to turn the living into the dead, and war broke out within Viridia, leading to the creation of the Witherlands.

There hadn’t been a practicing Necromancer inside Viridia for centuries, not since the original sorcerers had been banished.

So no, Castiel did not know - but how could so _many_ people be so wrong? How could they _all_ be mistaken about the nature of Necromancy?

“I don't know,” he answered, troubled, “I don't know where the dark magic in the Sanctum came from, but that doesn’t mean -”

“There she is, seize her!”

The loud yell distracted both of them and they looked up to see a bunch of soldiers racing towards them through the castle gates. Castiel quickly waved his hands, dissolving the spell, glaring at her.

“We’re not done,” he said sternly, turning around to face the soldiers. “What’s-”

He was cut off by the Head Guard grabbing Charlie’s arm and yanking her towards himself. She yelped in pain, trying to push him away and Castiel moved forward, protest dying on his lips when the Prime Minister pushed his way through the ranks of soldiers.

“Let me go, you ass!” Charlie shrieked.

“What is the meaning of this?” Castiel demanded. “You cannot handle the princess in this manner, how _dare_ you-”

Prime Minister Zachariah shot him a smirk.

“Princess she maybe,” he cut in smoothly, “She’s not exempt to laws.”

“What laws?” Charlie snorted. “I haven't broken any, let me go you big oaf-” she stomped Head Guard Roman’s foot and he growled, holding her tighter.

“Behave, princess,” he said softly. “Or you’ll see how we treat our troublesome prisoners up close and personal.”

“You dick-” she spat.

“ _Prisoners_?” Castiel snapped. “Zachariah, what’s the meaning of this?”

“Don't take your anger out on him, Your Grace,” came a familiar, slick voice.

Charlie’s eyes widened and she shook her head frantically. Castiel’s blood ran cold and he turned slowly to see exactly who he expected there.

_The Regent._

“Milord,” he titled his head in a low bow, Zachariah and the guards bending to signal respect. “What do you mean? Why is Her Highness being treated like she’s no more than a common thief?”

“Because she _is_ no better, Paladin Castiel,” the Regent answered. “If anything, she is worse.”

“What do you-”

“It pains me to say this, but by the power vested in me by my status as Regent, I declare Princess Charlie a traitor to the Crown,” Marv announced.

Castiel froze, heart thundering in his chest. “Wh-what?” he sputtered. “You cannot be _serious-_ ”

“I told you, Cas!” Charlie yelled. “I told you he was dirty!”

“Your Highness, you can't-”

“I’m afraid, Lord Castiel, that Her Highness has been planning a coup for a while now,” Marv cut in. “And _your_ apprentice was involved in it. I am aware that you found him in the Altar this morning, using dark magic - why did you not approach me? Why wasn't I informed?”

“I didn't - I don’t-” Castiel stammered, mind spinning.

“I understand you went to your Princess to get help,” Marv said, “But she’s a child still. I don't blame her eagerness to get to the crown before she’s ready, but she did bring dark magic into Viridia. I’m afraid this cannot go unpunished.”

“Cas, don't listen to him, he’s lying-” Charlie yelled desperately, “You miserable bastard, you had my mother-”

“Your Highness,” Marv cut in, “It pains me to do this, but I have no choice - I sentence you to the dungeons until a formal inquiry can be conducted into your behavior. Being royalty does not mean you’re above the law.”

“You can't do this!” Castiel hissed furiously, “She’s the heir to the throne  - she _is_ the Crown!”

“I can and I have,” Marv snapped back. “And unless you wish to join her, you would do well to heed my words, Paladin Castiel.”

“I’m the High Paladin,” he growled, “The Crown is under _my_ protection. Let me interrogate Charlie, let me-”

“Everyone knows how close you are to her,” Zachariah leered, looking her up and down. Charlie grit her teeth, refusing to look away, and Castiel had never been prouder of her than this moment. “What guarantee do we have that your trial will be fair?”

“You’re questioning _my_ loyalty, Zachariah?” Castiel snarled. “Mine?”

“No one is questioning anything, Castiel,” Marv interrupted. “But I’m afraid that Lord Zachariah has a point. While you may be loyal to the Crown, you grew up with Her Highness. If this will interfere with your duties…”

He paused and Castiel glared at him, head still spinning - what in the world was happening?

“That’s right,” Marv announced, “Until the investigation is closed, you’re temporarily relieved of your duties, High Paladin Castiel. Your proximity to the traitor princess makes you question, I’m afraid for the sake of the Crown, I must insist you return to your ancestral home immediately until we see the end of this horrid affair.”

“You’re _fucking_ kidding-” Charlie began hotly, “You can't get rid of Cas-”

“Charlie,” Castiel cut her off, shooting her a warning look. She fell silent, eyes wide with disbelief and he shook his head.

He still didn't know what was happening, he still didn't understand… but that Regent Marv was involved in something sinister, that much was obvious.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he tilted his head in acquiescence. “I shall leave the castle premises as soon as I have secured the Inner Sanctum and the Altar.”

“There’ll be no need,” Roman said, “My men are more than capable of securing the Altar.”

“With all due respect,” Castiel said defiantly, “No one else is trained to enter the Sanctum - the Altar of the Sun is independent of The Crown, it falls under _my_ sole protection. It is mine to care for; I will not allow anyone else to defile it.”

“How dare you-” Zachariah began, but Marv raised his hand to stop him.

“The High Paladin makes a fair point,” he said. “You’re welcome to secure your God, Castiel, but you shall leave the castle immediately after.”

“Of course, Milord,” he said.

“Cas, have you lost it?!” Charlie barked, “You can't seriously be-”

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he interrupted her. “This is the Regent’s wish, and this is what must be done… I shall head to see to Samandriel’s last rites, inform his family… his _spirit_ deserves to rest in peace, at the very least.”

He stressed the word _spirit_ , willing her to understand. A moment later, he relaxed, because her eyes went wide and she sucked in a deep breath - she got it.

“Traitors cannot be at peace, Lord Castiel,” Roman said in a nasty tone. “No matter what you do.”

“He _was_ my apprentice,” Castiel answered. “‘Tis my duty.”

“And you do your duty, don't you, Your Grace?” Zachariah sneered and the High Paladin simply nodded in response.

“I do.”

“Take Her Highness to the dungeons,” Marv ordered. “Castiel, gather your things and please leave at once.”

Charlie opened her mouth to protest but Castiel shot her a sharp look, shaking his head subtly. She subsided, shoulders shaking quietly and he wanted to reach out and pull her close to offer what comfort he could. Clenching his fist, he breathed in deeply, fury bubbling beneath his veins as Roman marched her off into the castle.

“If she’s hurt, Your Grace,” he said quietly, “I will not forgive it.”

Zachariah and Marv turned surprised expressions to him - Castiel had a pristine record of serving his superiors, of never opposing the Crown, so this kind of a threat from him was no doubt a surprise. Castiel ignored them both; right now, all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, the conviction of what he had to do settling into his bones. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked into the castle, heading for his chambers to gather the supplies he would need for his journey.

He didn't know if the Witherlands contained light or dark magic, he didn't know what was right or wrong, didn't know if Marv had murdered Queen Gertrude. But he needed answers and he was going to the one place where he would get them from - Samandriel himself.

If it meant that Castiel’s soul was doomed as Lucifer’s once was, then so be it. There was no sacrifice he wouldn't make to prove Charlie’s innocence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

Dean groaned as he jumped off of Impala. The black horse neighed, nosing into his side and he patted her long face gently, dropping a quick kiss to her nose. 

"Good girl," he murmured with a sigh. Behind him, Sam rode to a stop, staring down at his elder brother with a raised eyebrow. 

"Tired already?" he smirked and Dean rolled his eyes, flipping him off. "It's been barely half an hour." 

"Shut up, bitch," he grunted, "Baby's getting old," he patted his horse and Sam snickered. 

"Or  _ you  _ are," he retorted. "Jerk." 

Dean didn't respond, instead swinging himself over Impala's side again, gently flapping his heels against her flank to get her going _. A trot would do,  _ he decided, a soft pace she'd be able to keep up the whole day without getting tired. They had a whole day of patrol ahead of them, and though Baby was tough, he still liked to be careful. 

Silence fell between the brothers as they continued on their way, heading into the village just at the edge of the border. 

"Hail, lords!" 

Dean raised his hand back to Garth where the skinny man stood in front of his humble home. He hissed and retracted it immediately when the Mark began to burn on his arm, dropping it to his side. 

Sam, of course, noticed it immediately. Dean held back a curse as the younger Winchester rode up next to him and waved on his behalf, calling back out to their people, all of whom were lined up on the streets for a glimpse of their princes. 

"Ho Garth!" he gestured, and then muttered under his breath, "You doin' okay, Dean?" 

"I'm fine," he grumbled, "Fucking thing won't stop hurtin'." At Sam's alarmed look, he added hastily, "Not that I can't take it."

“You shouldn't have to,” Sam muttered. 

“I’m fine,” Dean repeated. The worry didn't fade from Sam's face, but Dean forced himself to look away, the guilt in those hazel eyes a bit too much for him at the moment. 

It had been years since Jessica and the Mark, but Dean doubted Sam was ever going to forgive himself for what his brother had had to endure on his behalf. Dean himself didn't give a shit of course - Sammy's safety and happiness was far more important than any little discomfort he'd have to bear. 

Except it  _ hadn't  _ been discomfort for a while now. For the past few weeks, the Mark had been aching on and off like a bitch. It had become so bad that Dean had started avoiding the training arena, not that he'd ever let Sam know. 

He was the Lord of the Witherlands, by the Goddess - and he couldn't even lift his own damn sword or greet his own people with a wave. How the fuck was he supposed to carry on like this? 

Pushing the thought back down, Dean forced a grin on to his face and shrugged at his brother. 

"I'm  _ fine _ , Sam," he stressed, "Can we just get on with the damn patrol already?"

Sam sighed, accepting that Dean wasn't going to talk, and instead kicked his heels against his horse's side, galloping on ahead. Dean followed more sedately, raising his face to the weak heat of the Witherlands sun. 

_ The Mark of Cain...  _

He held his arm out, grateful for the cold that forced them all to layer up so much. The Witherlands were always cold, their winters especially harsh - _ a curse, _ Dean ruminated bitterly,  _ for daring to choose their own fucking way against a dictator king. _

Beneath the thick wool of the long sleeves Ellen had knitted him, he could feel the Mark throb, another gift from the same king. Once a Mark of love, now it was a Mark of shame that Dean had taken on cheerfully to save his brother. For Lucifer and Michael, it represented bitterness, but for Dean, it was an honor - because Sammy was safe. 

Sighing again, he pressed his hand to where the Mark was pulsing on his skin, rubbing the area roughly. 

"Dean!" 

He looked up, starting back in surprise. Impala neighed, but didn't otherwise react and he sent up a quick thanks to the Goddess that he had such a sensible old horse. Kicking his heels against her flank, he urged her into a run, following after Sam's cry, stomach dropping as the call came again. 

"Dean, come quick!" 

"C'mon, girl," he murmured, "Come on." 

As though she sensed his urgency, Impala began to race against the harsh wind as it cut into their faces. The  _ click-clack  _ of her hooves against the road vanished as they moved into the jungles that bordered the edge of the Witherlands and Dean sucked in a harsh breath as he felt the change in the air. 

Fuck. 

_ The will-o’-the-wisps _ \- 

Dean could sense them gathering together, chittering away between themselves. It wasn’t often that that had happened; in fact, the last time it had, Dean had been barely out of his teens, having just accepted the Mark. They only ever came out when they sensed - 

He reared back in shock. The sound of his own blood pounding through his ears drowned out the sounds of Impala’s hooves and he sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the Mark pulse in response. 

_ Fuck _ . 

_ This  _ was why the Mark hurt, why it had been aching for the past few weeks - it had been a warning from the Goddess. 

Impala slowed to a stop without him urging her and Dean looked up to see Sam standing at the edge of the river, a grim look on his face. 

“Dean!” he called. 

The elder Winchester slid off his horse mutely, clutching at his aching arm, biting back another curse. He knew what he was going to see even before he saw it. 

The wisps were attracted to the magic of  _ Life  _ \- as spirits of the dead who hadn’t been able to pass through the Veil, they hovered close to where they could find life-forces. It was why they never left the borders; the magic separating Viridia and the Witherlands kept them from going into Viridia, but the people of the Witherlands contained the magic of Death, not Life. 

The aura burned a bright blue behind Dean’s eyes and it was filled with so much  _ Life  _ \- it hurt, but he all he wanted was to drown himself in the warmth of it. The magic of Death burned cold, burned icy in his veins; he’d never felt this  _ heat  _ before. 

“The fuck, Sam,” he whispered, shakily. His step faltered and Sam caught him, holding him up as they made their way to where the wisps were darting up and down the river. 

“You’re hurting,” Sam said, “Dean-” 

“The Mark,” he cut in, “Yeah. Let it go.” 

“Dean-”

“I said let it  _ go _ , Sam,” Dean snapped and Sam fell silent, both of them straggling towards the edge of the river. His brother could feel the same magic he did, he knew, but it was a muted feeling - Sam and the rest of his people would not be able to feel it to the level Dean did, the Mark amplifying every piece of magic he came across. 

The sound of a splash drew their attention and Sam swore under his breath as they both looked up in unison. The wisps were surrounding a flailing figure in the river - this wasn’t good. They were at the rapids, where the strength of the water was almost too much for a single person to bear - whoever this person was, it was doubtful they’d survive without help. 

That was what the wisps did; they lured people from the borders into the grasp to reach at Life, and ended up killing them. It was how new wisps were formed. 

His own people were wary enough to stay away and had protection enough, but every once in a while a Viridian would wander too close to that side of the border and the wisps would lure them to their death. And this person wasn’t just any Viridian - he carried the magic of Life, just as Dean wielded the power of Death. 

_ The wisps weren’t going to let him go that easily.  _

Realization punched his gut, as icy as the wind blowing against his face, and Dean pulled away from Sam who turned to him with a glare. 

“Dean,” he began. 

“I’m jumpin’ in,” he interrupted. “Get the horses ready, we’re takin’ this guy back home.” 

“Dean, this is the  _ rapids _ , you can't-” Sam protested. 

“You wanna let him die?” Dean demanded, “I know you can sense his magic, Sam, feel it. The man is as fucking strong as me, I ain’t lettin’ him drown.” 

“Could be a woman,” Sam said sulkily, but didn't protest further. “Be careful,” he said, stepping back and Dean nodded.

He took a step forward and threw his cloak off, unwrapping his robes. He stripped down to his trousers, shivering as the cold air hit him hard, and then took a deep breath, diving into the rapids.

A thousand pins and needles bit into his skin and Dean wished he could curse out loud under the water. The Mark glowed an eerie crimson in the darkness of the icy rapids, an angry smirk that mocked at him as he struggled against nature to get to where he could feel Life pulsing beneath the surface. 

He didn't need to search for direction, didn't need to worry about losing his way - the Mark pulled him along, somehow directing him straight for the blue,  _ blue  _ aura. It was like a straight arrow, yanking him towards itself, and Dean followed, giving into the magic. 

“He-hu-gulp!” 

By the Moon, he felt firm, Dean mused as his arms closed themselves around the man’s struggling form. 

“No-” he gurgled, “Go!” 

_ The wisps made you want to join them _ , Dean recalled; the man was stuck in the middle of some kind of hallucination that made him want to die. Dean yanked him forward, ignoring the way the water bit into their skin, paddling upwards towards the surface. 

The man fought his grip, kicking at Dean, who dodged him as best as he could. The Mark throbbed, as did the rest of his body from the cold, but Dean forced them both up, punching against the strong current of the rapids. 

Their heads finally broke the surface about a moment later - though it felt like fucking eternity to Dean - and he gasped, pulling the man close instinctively. Despite the cold, he was warm - warmer than Dean had felt in a long time - and he wanted to bury himself in that heat again and again. 

“Let- me-” the man, though, seemed none too intent on anything of the sort. He struggled against Dean’s grasp, grappling for purchase and the elder Winchester glared back at him, tightening his grip. 

Fuck, but the wisps’ power over him was stronger than he thought. The man made to dive back into deeper waters again and Dean growled low under his breath, knowing neither of them were getting out of this if he didn't do something. 

“Dean!” he heard Sam’s voice in the distance, but he ignored it, sucking in a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs. 

He didn't do this often, but he had no choice now - he’d have to use magic, and he’d have to do it without his Blade. 

Closing his eyes, he summoned all the power at his fingertips - which admittedly wasn’t much in his current condition - and opened his mouth - 

From the corner of his eyes, he could see the wisps blink in and out angrily, heading in his direction - 

He snarled, throwing everything he had at them -

“Go!” he roared, “Get the fuck  _ out!”  _

He felt the Mark pound against the flesh of his arm, glowing an angry red; blood howled its way through his veins, his entire body protesting against magic being channeled this way, without the safety of his Blade or his sigils. 

But Dean wasn’t the Dorcha for nothing; he gritted his teeth, and grabbed the drowning man of Life close, yelling to the heavens as the magic seared through him, banishing the wisps. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ he told them silently, his heart aching for the lost souls that turned into these fleeing creatures. No matter that they tried to routinely lead travelers to their deaths, Dean couldn't hate them - they were, after all, once his own people, and all they wanted was to find Life again. 

He knew that feeling well. 

The man in his arms stopped struggling, going limp against him, and Dean sighed. Across him, on the river’s bed, he saw Sam tie both their horses together, and then yank out his blade, throwing his arms up. 

“Lemme help!” he called and Dean raised his own arm tiredly in response. The Mark’s glow hadn’t lessened any, but right now, he couldn't give a fuck, tired as he was. Even from this distance, Dean thought he could see Sam’s expression darken with worry. Ignoring the thought, he focused on staying upright - the wisps maybe gone, but the rapids were still strong, pushing them towards the cliffs that dotted the edge of the Viridian-Witherland border. 

The man in his arms was starting to shiver, he noticed, looking down to catch a glimpse of him. He couldn't see much with the water and the faint light, but dark hair flopped over what seemed to be a pale, square-jawed face and he pursed his lips, wishing Sam would hurry. His own magic - keeping them afloat and warm for what it was worth - was fading fast, his blood protesting at being used this way. 

It wasn’t often that a Necromancer used magic without letting blood spill first. 

“Hurry!” he yelled at his brother, who was already cutting into his own skin, allowing a few drops of said blood to fall into the wet sand below him. Dean’s eyes dripped and for a second, he thought he saw light flash off of the serrated edge of Sam’s knife. Snapping himself to attention, he forced himself to watch wide-eyed as the younger Winchester traced the sigil for float into the sand with his blood. 

A wave of magic spread over the area -  _ for a mile in radius, _ Dean guessed - pulsing once and then a second time. Suddenly, the push of the water against him faded, held back by Sam’s spell, and he relaxed, padding forward. He didn’t let go of his magic yet though, gritting his teeth against the Mark’s angry sting, fighting his way towards where Sam was standing. He was dragging the man rather unceremoniously, but at this point, Dean honestly couldn’t give a flying fuck. 

After what felt like an hour - but was really only about ten minutes of desperate chugging and swimming - they were finally close to the riverbank. Sam held his arms out and Dean shoved the now-unconscious man at him, pulling himself on to the sand after him, panting and gasping for breath. 

“By the tits of the Goddess,” he wheezed, “That was…  _ motherfucker _ , I…”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s creative swearing, turning his attention to the man lying on the ground. Dean breathed in deeply, savoring the cold air he forced into his lungs, gulping it in like a dying man. He reached out and pressed his palm flat on top of the Mark, hissing lightly as it pulsed in warning. 

_ I’m sorry, _ he said mentally,  _ I’m sorry. Thank you.  _

He never quite knew - or he’d never admit - who he was talking to when he spoke to the Mark like this. But it never seemed to matter, because whoever it - She - was, always listened. 

As if on cue, the Mark throbbed sharply, once, twice, thrice, before the pain faded to a dull ache that spread throughout his body. Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean turned over, getting to his knees to get a proper look at the man he’d saved - this man of Life. 

He looked like a drowned rat, which, considering that he almost did drown, wasn’t a surprise. Raven hair dangled wetly over a pale, rough face, and Dean was startled at how beautiful he looked. His robes were pure white, with a blue border trimmed along the edges, though they seemed way too light for the Witherlands; clearly he was not from around here - which could mean only one thing. 

This was a  _ Viridian.  _

Sudden bitterness welled up on Dean’s tongue and he swallowed it down. No matter how badly Viridians had treated them, it didn't mean he had to take it out on a random stranger - it wasn’t  _ this  _ guy’s fault that his people were starving to death. 

Sam was already pumping his chest, attempting to wake him up. The man’s lips weren’t blue, thankfully, and two pumps of his brother’s powerful arms against his chest had the man coughing up the water he’d swallowed, throwing up to their side and gasping for breath. 

“Wh-what?” he said hoarsely. The back of Dean’s neck prickled - fuck, but his voice was deep and rough, as though he’d gargled ten rounds of ale at the local tavern. 

“Uh,” Sam said hesitantly, “Hello.” 

The man looked about him confusedly, dark brows drawing together in a scowl. Dean watched as realization dawned on him and he shot up, coughing and sputtering water out. 

“Hey!” Sam patted his back, “Easy! You almost drowned, take a minute.”

“M-my,” he hissed in answer, “My  _ bag _ !” 

The bag - which had somehow made it through their journey and fallen off on the sand when Sam yanked him ashore - lay innocently next to him, Dean saw. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed it and held it up, growling. 

“This thing?” he barked. The man’s head whipped around to look at him, and Dean’s breath caught. 

Goddess above… those  _ eyes.  _

They were the same shade as the man’s aura, which danced behind Dean’s eyes, full of Life and power, calling to him. Pink lips pursed themselves in displeasure as he scowled back at Dean, holding his hand out for his bag, and the Necromancer forced himself to look away, reminding himself that this was a  _ Viridian _ , and a seemingly powerful one at that, if his magic and his clothes were anything to judge by. 

“Give it to me,” he demanded. 

Dean threw the bag at him, and the man’s arm shot out to catch it. It was a well-muscled, roughened arm, and Dean licked his lips, swallowing hard - clearly, this man wasn’t new to weapons. 

He watched as the stranger yanked the bag open and dug through it. “Where is it?” he muttered under his breath, ripping his way through his things, before finally pulling out a weird blade. It was angular, long and thin, but the edge of it was decorated with two snakes, twined around one another. 

Dean’s blood ran cold - he recognized that strange blade. 

It was a  _ caduceus.  _

This wasn’t just any Viridian - this was one of those fucking  _ paladins _ . And from the look of his robes, he was one of the more prominent ones. 

Fuck not blaming him for his people’s struggles; this man was one of the very people who’d turned their backs on the Witherlands. 

“My caduceus,” the guy breathed, holding it up. Across him, Dean heard Sam’s breath catch, and he looked at his brother, meeting his wide eyes with a nod of his own - Sam recognized him too. 

“Oi,” Dean called. The paladin looked up from his caduceus with a frown, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes?” he tilted his head in a stupidly awkward manner. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean asked bluntly. 

“Dean!” Sam snapped, turning to the Viridian paladin with an expression of apology on his face. “Sorry about him, he’s-”

“Where am I?” the man interrupted, suddenly seeming to realize that he wasn’t in sunny Viridia anymore. “What’s- where is this place?” He frowned., “The last thing I remember…” 

“Bright lights? Hanging ones?” Dean snorted. “And then some kind of a dream where you were convinced you needed to walk into the water because it would save you?” 

The paladin sucked in a deep breath, features turning twisted with realization. “It was a trap,” he breathed. “The glowing lights… they promised to save…” He fell silent and Dean shoved down the curiosity burning in his gut - what the fuck did he care about a Viridian paladin’s dreams? 

The Viridians had closed borders, refused to trade with his people - the paladins were the fucking nobles who had negotiated with them through it. They’d  _ seen  _ his people suffer and still, they had stood by the Regent as he shut down all relations… because they blamed the Fallen for their Queen’s death. 

Most of his people had never even  _ seen  _ the Queen before she passed away. 

So whoever this guy was - no matter how beautiful he was or how much his magic called to Dean - he could kiss his ass. 

“What were those things?” the man asked. 

“Will o’the wisps,” Sam replied, getting to his feet and offering his arm to the paladin, who looked at it for a second, chewing on his lower lip before accepting it. Sam pulled him to his feet and helped him straighten himself as he frowned again. 

“Will o’the wisps?” he said slowly. “They’re…” 

“Spirits who couldn’t cross the Veil,” Dean said harshly. “Attracted to idiots like you who have Life… trap ‘em and kill ‘em.” 

The paladin turned to him, wet dark and wet hair dripping over his scowling face and by the  _ Goddess _ , Dean needed his libido to shut the hell up right the hell now. 

“Have Life…?” he muttered, looking around him, as though taking in his surroundings for the first time. His gaze widened and he turned his gaze back to his bag, clutching at his caduceus tightly. 

“I made it,” he breathed, “By the Lord…” he looked up, a look of discomfort on his face. “I’m in the Witherlands, aren’t I?” He turned his head to stare back at the rapids., “I didn't expect it to be so… cold.” 

He wrapped his arms around himself, stuffing the caduceus back into his bag and holding it tightly to his chest. Across Dean, Sam’s face softened, but the elder Winchester growled low in his throat, turning his back to both of them.

“Well, Your  _ Grace _ ,” he snarled, “I apologize for the less than warm welcome. You can swim your Viridian ass back to the lands you came from.” 

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed. “Ignore my brother. ,” he said, “I’m Sam.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched as the paladin hesitated for a moment and then shook himself visibly, taking Sam’s hand to shake it. Low rage simmered beneath his skin and he swallowed hard; he’d been only a kid, but he remembered the hard negotiations, the way Dad had pleaded with the castle paladins to keep the borders open. He remembered the High Paladin looking down in discomfort and apology, unable to say anything as the Regent declared the borders closed and trade shut down.

But more than anything else, Dean remembered the look of failure on Dad’s face that first winter when he realize that their crops were failing, that they couldn’t grow new Life where Death reigned. 

This man - this  _ paladin…  _ he was one of those heartless assholes who’d caused it all. 

“My name is Castiel,” the paladin said. “And I need your help, please.” 

Dean snorted. “I’ll say,” he muttered. 

“Look,” Castiel began, “Viridia is in trouble, I need a Necromancer, I can pay you-” 

“Keep your fucking cash,” Dean whirled around, a sneer on his face. “Didn't think we were worth savin’ years ago, and now you need  _ our _ help?” 

“Dean, let’s hear him out-” Sam cut in and Dean rolled his eyes. 

“ _ You _ do that,” he said, “I’m headin’ back. Ellen’s probably got dinner ready and waitin’. And you can make your own way back unto sunny sunshine Viridia.” 

He stomped over to where Impala was tied and pulled at the knot furiously, untying her from the tree Sam had tethered stuck her to. She neighed softly, nuzzling into him, and Dean tried his best to ignore the two behind him. He shrugged his clothes on, breathing in deeply as the warmth of the rough wool began to seep into his chilled skin. 

“Look,” the paladin, Castiel, whoever the hell he was, said quietly. “I understand that you do not look kindly upon Viridians - it isn’t easy for me either, to have approached someone whose magic is so…” he hesitated, eyes darting to where Dean’s Mark was still glowing, visible even through the wet cloth of his long sleeves. Dean flushed, turning away with a snarl, refusing to admit how much it bothered him, that long, lingering look.  

“So  _ different  _ from mine,” he said finally. “But I am left with no choice - Viridia’s princess is in trouble, and as the High Paladin, I must do everything I can to -”

Impala’s reins fell out of his hands as Dean whirled around on one foot to glare at him. 

“High Paladin?” he snarled, “Leave.  _ Now _ .” 

By the bloody blazes… this was the High Paladin - his mentor had been the one who’d ruined the Witherlands, who’d sent them all to their fucking deaths. 

Damn if Dean was gonna stand by and  _ help  _ him. 

The son of a bitch looked taken aback, surprise flitting across his face before it vanished and he schooled his features into an expression of impassive neutrality. His back stiffened, but his gaze was defiant as he met Dean’s glare with one of his own and Dean couldn't help the way his heart leapt - this was one impressive paladin, all right. 

That didn't mean he was going to give in; he was the Lord of these parts. High Paladin Castiel maybe a big Lord in Viridia, but around here, what Dean said was law - Castiel could suck it, no matter how beautiful his eyes. 

“No,” he answered forcefully, “I came here with a purpose and I shall not depart till I fulfill it.” 

“Dean,” Sam said, “Dean, let’s at least hear him out.” 

“Why?” Dean cried. “He’s Viridian, Sam - the fucking  _ High Paladin _ of all people of them! He’s the reason people are dying. Frank, Eve, Amy… Lisa.  _ Jess _ .” 

Sam sucked in his breath and glared back at Dean when he turned to his brother. 

“Do I need to go on?” he snapped, but Sam didn’t look away, standing his ground as he always did, despite the reminder of the one Viridian they’d both trusted and then lost. “The paladins didn't do shit, Sam, and he’s their fucking commander.” 

“Which is why we need to listen to what he has to say, Dean,” Sam retorted. “Not for  _ his  _ sake, but…” He looked at Castiel, who was listening intently, and shook his head. Gently, he grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled him aside, lowering his voice. 

“Our treasury is almost depleted,” he said quietly. “We can’t afford to keep buying food from across the ocean, and we’re not able to grow crops either. If you can gain favor with the High Paladin…” 

Dean deflated, the anger flowing out of him like a pricked balloon. Sam had a point - they’d been emptying their coffers, trying to buy grain from the lands across the water. Not only did they charge through the nose for their supplies, transport and merchant ships cost an arm and a leg and the decades of food imports buying food outside had taken its toll on all of them. 

Eileen and her scientists were trying to find a way to get their crops to grow here again, but there was a reason this place was called the  _ Witherlands  _ \- nothing grew in a place where Life didn’t exist. 

“I don't  _ want  _ to deal with it, Dean,” Sam’s voice was quiet, his eyes suspiciously bright. “After Jess… after everything… but,” he shrugged, “We do what we have to do to save our people.”

Sam was right. Of course he was - as much Dean wouldn’t admit it, he couldn't do anything more for his people; their lives meant more than his petty rage. Lisa maybe be gone, but he still had Ben to think about. The teenager had moved into the castle on Dean’s insistence, depending on him to ensure his survival - Dean couldn't,  _ wouldn't  _ let him down. 

So he grit his teeth and nodded at Sam, sucking in a deep breath as they both turned to Castiel, who had begun to shiver in his thin layers. 

“Alright, fine,” Dean snapped, “We’ll help. But only if you do the same.” 

Castiel tilted his head in acquiescence, “What would you wish of me?” he asked warily. “I must warn you, at present, Viridia is -  _ achoo!”  _

Dean should  _ not  _ find that sneeze cute - fuck, he needed to get laid if he was lusting after the  _ High Paladin _ of Viridia. Rolling his eyes at himself, he stomped back to Impala and pulled out an extra cloak from the bags hanging off of her side. If there was one thing constant about the Witherlands, it was the unpredictable weather; one never knew when one would need extra layers. 

Growling under his breath, he held it out to Castiel, refusing to meet his eyes. The paladin looked confusedly between him and the offered cloak, pursing his lips, and Dean sighed impatiently, throwing it at his face. 

Castiel’s arm shot up -  _ instinctively _ , Dean noted, knowing such reflexes came from years of training - and caught the cloak without pause. 

“This?” he looked down, a bewildered expression on his face as he though he’d never seen a damned cloak before. 

“Put it on before you die of hypothermia,” Dean barked. “Don't need my people to be punished for murdering the High Paladin too.” 

“I’m not much of a High Paladin right now,” Castiel murmured under his breath. Before Dean could say anything else, he shrugged the cloak on, wrapping it around himself, shivering lightly. Goosebumps were breaking out on his skin, his throat hoarse, and Sam took his arm gently, leading him towards his own steed. 

“Why don't we head back to the castle?” he said kindly. “We can discuss terms there, Your Grace.” 

“Castiel, please,” the man nodded. 

“I’m Sam,” Sam repeated, “That’s my brother Dean Winchester, Lord of the Witherlands.”

Castiel met Dean’s sneering smirk with a defiant smile of his own. “It’s a pleasure,” he said softly, “Your Highness. Thank you for saving my life. And for your offer of assistance.” 

“Whatever,” Dean griped. “As if I had a choice.” 

“What was that?” Castiel tilted his head and Sam shot Dean an angry glance that made the elder Winchester sigh. 

“Nothin’,” he said, “Keep up, Samantha!” 

Without waiting for a reply, he swung his legs over Impala’s side and grabbed her reins, urging her into an urgent run. 

Well, this was gonna be a fun ride. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

Castiel shivered, pulling the cloak tighter into himself as he rubbed his palms together to create warmth. Behind him, he could feel Sam hum softly, urging their horse to go faster and swallowed hard - Camry had drowned in the encounter with the wisps, and Castiel's heart ached for the loss of his beloved companion. 

Briefly sending up a prayer for her soul to rest in peace, he twisted around as much as he could. 

"How much farther?" His teeth were chattering, despite the cloak that Lord Winchester had thrown at him. He hadn't expected the Witherlands to be this  _ cold _ ; he'd been very young when Joshua had led the negotiations all those years ago, and he'd been more interested in bothered about learning about the magic of the Witherlands than he was about the weather. 

Sam glanced down at him with a small, kind smile and Castiel tried not to feel insulted at the way the man towered over him. As it was, they were both squeezed into the saddle - Sam was a giant, which meant that Castiel was barely hanging on, his derriere already bruised from the bumpy ride. 

A part of him wished he could've ridden along with Lord Winchester instead, but he immediately dismissed the possibility - Dean certainly seemed to want absolutely nothing to do with Castiel. 

But by the Lord... he was  _ beautiful _ . 

Castiel would never admit it, but the Lord of the Witherlands was the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen. Sandy hair - not quite brown, not quite gold - looped over eyes so green, they put the Viridian fields to shame. Broad shoulders and rough hands that had clearly seen years of harsh, manual labor, along with the perfect bow-legs... all of it made for an incendiary look that made Castiel's stomach swoop low with desire. 

Not that he could ever give in to it - Castiel wasn't ashamed of his sexuality (he and Charlie had held one another through their respective puberty panics), but he did know that the High Paladin of Viridia could not court the Lord of the Witherlands. 

"Only a few more minutes," Sam said, answered his question and he nodded, turning his gaze back to the front. Ahead of them, they could hear the  _ click-clack _ of Dean's horse as he raced forward into the heart of the Witherlands.  

He had no time for a relationship or sex right now, in any case. Charlie was in  _ trouble  _ \- he had to get her out, bring her back to safety, not to mention find out what the hell the Regent was up to. 

Had Marv really killed Queen Gertrude? 

If he had, then not only was he responsible for her death, but also the deaths of all those in the Witherlands who had perished due to trade closure shut-down. From what Dean had been saying, the Witherlands had been the worse off for the closed borders - Viridia had suffered a heavy backlash from the lack of trade, yes, but none so much as what the Fallen people seemed to have suffered.

If Marv was the one behind it, then it was  _ Castiel's  _ job - as High Paladin, independent of the Crown - to bring him to justice and install the rightful heir on the throne, no matter the cost to himself. 

So he forced himself not to look at the way the muscles of Dean's back flexed when he raised his hand in greeting to the castle guard. 

"Ahoy, brotha'," the big, burly man called out, pulling the gates open, and Dean grinned back at him, jumping off his  dark, black horse. He led her over to the guard, handing the reigns over easily, and Castiel refused to admit that the tightening of his chest was jealousy as Dean and the man clasped arms, exchanging side-arm hugs. 

"Benny," he said warmly. "How's Liz?" 

"Keepin' her uncle on his toes," the man answered with a bright grin. "Firecracker, that girl is, even when she's carryin' a critter inside her." 

"Or you're growing old," Dean teased, " _ Grandpa _ ." 

"Grandpa I may soon become," Benny returned, "Don't mean I still can't kick your ass, brotha." 

Sam slowed to a trot before pulling his horse to a stop altogether. Confused, but following his lead, Castiel watched as Sam jumped off, his back stiff as he greeted the guard. 

"Benny," he said coolly. "How are you?" 

The man bowed in lieu of a greeting - there was none of the familiarity that he'd hugged Dean with, his expression neutral and impassive. 

"I'm good, thank you, Your Grace," he said. 

Sam simply nodded, gesturing for Castiel to come forward. 

"Could you please get a room ready for him?" Samhe asked. 

Dean's smile disappeared and he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. 

"Who's this?" Benny asked him, an eyebrow raised - Castiel didn't miss the way his eyes narrowed, no doubt taking in the state of their clothes and the bag he clutched to his chest, that had the Viridian insignia on it. 

"Viridian," Dean answered, "He's the-"

"Just wandered past the border by mistake," Sam interjected quickly. Dean's eyes flew to him and he opened his mouth to protest, but Sam shook his head subtly, shooting his brother a look. 

Castiel was impressed at the silent communication the two Winchesters seemed to share - a quick look, a shake of the one head and then a pursing of lips, and entire conversations had taken place. He looked at Benny, who hadn't missed the exchange either, but didn't question it, accepting that despite his apparent friendship with Dean, there were some things he couldn't share. 

In a way, it reminded him of himself and Charlie and himself in a way, their positions always getting in the way of their friendship. 

An image of her smiling face as she messed up his hair -  _ "let loose, a bit, will ya, Cas?!"  _ \- flashed across his eyes and he swallowed tightly, suddenly desperate to get inside. He needed to get to her, needed her to be okay. 

Fortunately, Dean seemed to sense his urgency, because he cast a look at him, turning back to Benny and shrugging. 

"I'mma get him inside," he said, "Get him a hot bath and some food - idiot got trapped by the wisps and almost drowned." 

Benny nodded, "Alrigh' brotha," he answered. "I'll let Ellen know that she should set another plate at the table." 

"Thanks, Benny," Sam spoke for both of them brothers. He placed a hand on Castiel's back, steering the paladin straight towards the castle, not allowing him them to linger. 

Dean stayed back, quickly clasping Benny's shoulder before hurrying forward to catch up to them. 

"The fuck, Sam?" he growled. "It's  _ Benny _ , he ain't gonna-"

"Six years," Sam cut him off, "Since Andrea died. And Peter died  _ this  _ winter - it's been less than six months. Liz'll be a single mom... really think he's gonna welcome the High Paladin after that, Dean?" 

Dean fell silent, clenching and unclenching his fists. Curiosity burned within Castiel, and he opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, Sam spoke up again. 

"I gotta go see Eileen," he said. "She said she was gonna try out a new spell to try and grow more grain, I'mma see how that's going." 

The frown on Dean’s face curved into a lascivious grin. "That what they're callin' it these days?" He eyed his brother up and down, and Sam rolled his eyes. 

"Shut up," he huffed. "Show Castiel the guest chambers, will you?" 

Curiosity forgotten, Castiel frowned - he really didn't want to be left alone with the grumpy Lord Winchester. Sam turned to him, an apologetic look on his face. 

"I'll see you at dinner, Your Grace," he said, "Please make yourself comfortable, and don't let my idiot brother be an ass to you." 

"I'm right here, bitch," Dean snarked. 

"Please don't kill him," Sam called over his shoulder as he stepped forward, "Jerk!" 

He disappeared down the hallway, leaving Dean and Castiel to walk the other way in awkward silence. For the first time, Castiel looked around, taking notice of the place they were in. 

The castle didn't look that much different from his own back home, though it was much colder than he was used to. There seemed to be a perpetual draft that wound its way through the hallways, teasing at their cloaks, their footsteps echoing loudly in the silence. 

"Who," Castiel spoke up finally, "are Peter and Andrea?" 

Dean spared him a brief glance, pursing his lips before he shrugged. 

"Why do you care?" he asked harshly. "You're here to ‘complete your mission’," he quoted, "And as always, we of the Fallen are at your service,  _ Milord _ ." 

The bitterness in Dean's voice was palpable enough that Castiel flinched, but didn't back down. He came to a stop, grabbing the other man's arm and glaring at him defiantly. 

"I get it," he hissed, "You hate me. You hate what I represent - but remember, Lord Winchester, that it was one of the  _ Fallen  _ that killed  _ our  _ Queen."

Dean snarled, pushing him back - Castiel didn't shy away, feeling the cold wetness of the castle walls eat at his already numb back even through the warmth of the cloak. 

"It was  _ not  _ one of the Fallen," he growled into Castiel's face, those beautiful green eyes flashing fiercely. "Your Regent accused us, but he couldn't ever offer proof." 

"How would you know?" Castiel retorted desperately. Because, by the Sun, this was eating at him; if  _ Marv  _ had killed Gertrude... if Charlie had been  _ right _ ... 

Then  _ everything  _ Castiel knew about himself, about Viridia and the life he led... it was all a lie. Joshua had lied, his own mentor had led him wrong, and  _ Castiel  _ had led thousands of his followers wrong too. 

"You were barely more than a child," he continued, "As was I." 

He was aware that challenging the Lord of the Witherlands could prove fatal, but  _ fuck  _ if he cared - Charlie was prisoner, and Castiel's world was falling apart around him, and this infuriatingly beautiful man was being so bloody irritating. 

"I  _ was  _ a kid," Dean said harshly, "but I wasn't stupid. I was there when my Dad negotiated with the High Paladin - it was  _ your  _ mentor who stood by and watched as your damned Regent closed the borders, shut down trade with us."

Castiel could feel the pressure of his hard, unyielding form against him, Dean's thick and muscled thighs pushing into his own. His magic buzzed beneath his skin, jumping and reaching out to the man in front of him, who snarled, breathing hot over Castiel's face. 

His gaze was drawn to that snarling mouth, the plush pinkness of it absolutely inviting, and he licked his own lips, the irrational need to kiss him churning hot in his belly. 

Dean's eyes tracked that tiny movement, his breath shortening, and for a long moment, they stared at one another, blue clashing with green. Castiel could hear the blood pounding through his veins, his heart racing in his ribcage, throat tightening. 

Abruptly, Dean jumped back as though burned, looking away, putting as much space between them as he could. Castiel blinked, breathing out softly, pressing a hand to his chest, forcing himself to relax. 

By the blazes, he hadn't been this out of sorts since he was a teenager. It didn't bode well; as High Paladin, he was meant to keep his emotions in check, maintain a sense of calm through every situation, no matter how dire. 

How did Dean Winchester arouse his passions so? 

Ignoring that petty thought, he straightened up, slowly breathing out, allowing his heartbeat heart-rate to return to normal. 

"Dean," he said, and then shook his head, correcting himself, "Lord Winchester," he muttered stiffly. "I apologize. What happened in your lands... I cannot understand, and I don't want to trivialize your people's suffering." 

Dean sighed, running his hands through long, golden locks and shook his head. 

"No, man," he said in a low voice. "I'm sorry. I've been a dick since the moment we met... it's just..." 

He gestured towards the empty hallway and Castiel nodded, both of them walking down the corridor to wherever it led. Silence fell between them again, less uncomfortable this time, and the High Paladin waited for Dean to collect his thoughts. 

"The trade shut-down wasn't easy," Dean said finally. "As you said, I was only a kid, but Dad took me along to most of the negotiations, since I was heir and needed to know how to rule anyway..." 

"I was still Joshua's apprentice then," Castiel recalled. "Still in my teens." 

Dean nodded., "After, uh," he cleared his throat, "After everything... winters are hard, here in the Witherlands. And our magic..." he trailed off. 

"The magic of Death," Castiel murmured, "Necromancy." 

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "Ain't exactly helpful for growing crops or feedin' our people. Dad was desperate enough to send merchant ships across the oceans to bring grain back, but it's expensive as hell." 

They finally emerged into a huge hall, at the end of which stood open doors. Dean led them through it and Castiel followed, coming to a stop in front of a smaller door, carved with strange runes he'd never seen before. 

"Andrea was Benny's wife," Dean continued, ducking through it., "She passed six years ago - the imported grain contained impurities we didn't detect until it was too late. And Peter was Liz's husband; he died this winter. Starvation. Liz is carrying his child, Benny's grand niece or nephew." 

He stopped, holding the handle of a third door, leveling Castiel with a cold, tired look. 

"My Dad died that first winter, refusing to eat when his people couldn't," he said quietly. "I watched as he blamed himself for failing his people and drank himself to death. My friend, Lisa, died three years ago, and her teenage son lives in the castle because I promised her I would look out for him." 

"Dean," Castiel swallowed hard, "Dean, I-"

The smile that the Lord's lips curved into was the bitterest, tiredest smile Castiel had ever seen on anyone. He yanked the door open, pushing the High Paladin inside and lingering in the doorway. 

"You'll find, Cas," he murmured, "that most of us don't like Viridians - for good reasons. Michael banished Lucifer, and your Regent has all but killed us."

"Dean, I-"

"Go and take a bath," Dean cut him off, looking away. "There should be hot water in the bathroom there - I'll have Benny get you some clothes, and get the fire going."

He looked up, meeting Castiel's eyes with an impassive look. "Welcome to the Witherlands, Your Grace. I’ll be back in an hour to get you." 

Before Castiel could respond, he'd slammed the door shut behind him. The echoing sound felt like an accusation as Castiel dropped his bag and sat down on the bed that occupied the middle of the room, sighing deeply. 

How had it come to this? 

He pulled out his caduceus, running his hands absently over the twining snakes at the edge of it, closing his eyes and recalling the events of the past few days.

He’d returned to the Sanctum, purified and then fortified it, locking it with his blood so that no one except him would be able to get inside. A spell like that wasn’t used lightly - open blood magic was close enough to Necromancy that Viridians frowned upon it - but desperate times called for desperate measures and he’d done what he had to. 

Then, he’d gone back to his chambers,  calmly packed his things, and left with Camry. Marv and his soldiers assumed that he was returning to his ancestral home on the Viridian borders, but Castiel had ducked their attention and snuck across, into the Witherlands, only to be accosted by bright, white lights that showed him a vision of a smiling Charlie, beckoning him to her. 

She was all he had left - how would he react if he lost her because some random person in power decided to make the wrong decision? 

Acrid laughter bubbled in his throat, because that was  _ exactly  _ what was happening right now. Marv was making the wrong decision; whether or not he had killed Gertrude, Charlie was not a traitor to the Crown or to her people - she was being imprisoned for the wrong reasons. And Castiel stood to lose the only family he had. 

If this burning helplessness was what Dean felt when he'd stood by and watched his father - his people - die, then Castiel could hardly begrudge him the anger he held. 

Sighing again, he picked up his caduceus and his bag, taking both with him inside the bathroom. He trusted Dean - he was almost startled to realize that - and Sam, but he wasn't letting his caduceus out of his sight. He wasn't stupid. 

The bath was big, he noted within surprise, the tap right over it, and he reached out to turn the tapit, running his hand below the water. He hissed as it flowed out hot, marveling at the way they seemed to have managed to get heat a tank of water like that -  _ necessary, _ he mused,  _ given how cold the Witherlands were. _ Perhaps a magic spell that kept the water perpetually hot; he wouldn't be surprised. 

Letting the water run to fill the bath, he dropped the bag right in front of it so that it would remain in his line of sight all through his bath. He stepped out of the cloak, allowing himself a moment - a single moment of weakness - to breathe in Dean's scent, enjoying the masculine smell, before he let it go, throwing it to the ground and the stripping down out of his clothes. 

Naked, he stepped into the bath, hissing a little as the hot water first stung. He relaxed into the warmth, allowing the water to wash away the dirt and the grime, breathing in deeply. 

_One, two, three,_ **in** \- he counted, - _one, two, three, four, five,_ **out -**

He fell easily into the rhythmic pattern Joshua had taught him years ago easily, trying to find the peace that came with being a paladin. His mind was cluttered, thoughts jumping up and down, and he forced them out, numbing himself to all but the heat of the water, the sound of his own breath and the feel of the steam against his skin. 

It took him longer than usual, but when he finally emerged, he was much calmer, back to his unflappable self. Sighing, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out cautiously, holding his bag tightly. 

As Dean had promised, there were fresh clothes laid out on the bed for him. The door was slightly ajar, a draft blowing into the room, and the sound of the fire crackling merrily caught his attention. Castiel  turned to see the fireplace roaring brightly, the heat spreading through the perpetual cold of the Witherlands. Skin pink from his bath, he breathed in deeply, moving towards the fireplace and bending down in front of it, absorbing as much of the heat as he could.

For long, quiet moments, he simply stared into the fire, mind blank as he’d been trained to keep it, utterly calm. But there was a precarity to his peace that hadn’t ever been there before, as though a single breath would shatter the illusion he’d built up in his mind. 

Castiel felt him a second before he heard him - his magic  _ leapt _ , buzzing beneath his skin, calling to its opposite, its mate, its match, even as the man stumbled against his door, cursing sharply. 

He whirled around, grabbing his caduceus and pointing at the door. The towel slipped, dropping to the floor, but he paid it no mind, scowling as his magic hummed, leaping and bounding. 

“Whossit?” he growled, looking up. 

_ Oh dear,  _ he thought, blue eyes widening in shock and embarrassment as they met similarly startled green ones.  _ I’m in trouble.  _

*-*-*

Dean growled under his breath as he stomped towards the stupid paladin’s room. His stomach was grumbling and he was tireder than usual - using magic without his Blade was not an easy task, and it had taken more out of him than he’d realized. But he had promised to get Cas -  _ Castiel _ , he reminded himself sternly - in an hour, and Dean never broke a promise. Besides, he wanted to make sure that the man hadn’t frozen to death already; Witherland weather took time to get used to.  

Ellen had already smacked the back of his head when he’d gone to her after dropping Castiel off, demanding that he bring the paladin to dinner. Dean would never understand it, how her heart managed to be so big - out of the entire Council, she was almost always the first to talk about extending a hand in hands of peace instead of war, despite the fact that Bill had died even before Dad did, despite the fact that she starved herself to ensure that the rest of the castle staff had food to eat. 

To be honest, Dean had no idea what the hell he was doing and his libido wasn’t fucking helping. That single moment when he’d backed Castiel into a corner, the man hadn’t backed down - his eyes had flashed with a fierceness that captivated the Necromancer, that impressed him. And Castiel had licked his lips, drawing Dean’s attention to how delicious they looked; for a glorious, heated moment, Dean had  _ wanted _ . 

He hadn’t wanted since Lisa, and even then, his magic hadn’t buzzed beneath his skin for her the way it did with Castiel. 

But it couldn't be - not only was Castiel the fucking High Paladin of fucking Viridia, he held the magic of  _ Life _ . 

Dean was a Necromancer; his magic was as Death itself was, cold and unforgiving. Castiel grew things where Dean  _ destroyed  _ them - they were about as likely to get along as oil and water. 

It didn't stop him from wanting the paladin, but if there was one thing Dean knew, it was how to push his desires down until they vanished from his mind. For as long as he’d been alive, Dean’s purpose - as Dad had taught him - was to take care of Sam, and now, his people. 

For their sakes alone, he couldn't jeopardize this. No matter how repulsed he was by Viridians, no matter how much he wanted their Paladin, Dean couldn't think with his emotions or his dick - he needed to keep his head about him. 

Which was why he sent Benny to get Eileen and Sam as soon as he left Ellen’s. If there was anyone in the castle who was level-headed, it was those two. The Council wasn’t without prejudice, particularly against Viridians, but Sam and Eileen would know exactly how to handle this negotiation - because a negotiation it was bloody gonna be if Dean had anything to say about it - and they’d do it without getting emotional. 

Sighing to himself and massaging his temples, Dean came to a stop in front of Castiel’s room, brows drawing together when he noticed the door left open. He opened his mouth to call for the paladin, when his eyes fell on the form crouching in front of the fire. 

His voice died, mouth going dry at the sight in front of him. Castiel’s back arched as he stretched, leaning forward to warm his hands and staring into the fire. Powerful muscles bunched beneath the most gorgeous tattoo he’d ever seen. Black feathers dotted the sides of the paladin’s back, the wings running all the way down to the curve pivot of his ass, hidden beneath the white towel wrapped around his hips. 

Dean’s gaze followed the shape of those wings hungrily, taking in the perfectly shaped ass that the towel wasn’t doing a very good job of concealing. He moved back up, taking in the few drops of water that dripped down Castiel’s neck, black hair still wet from the bath he’d apparently just stepped out of. 

Holding back a groan, Dean swallowed tightly - the image of running his tongue down the shape of that tattoo flashed across his brain, and he pushed it away. By the  _ Goddess _ , he wanted to see where it ended, to see what the full extent of it was. 

His magic  _ roared  _ to life, the Mark pulsing on his arm, and he looked down at it, startled, as it began to burn against his skin. Hissing, he stumbled, almost falling against the door and the sound must have attracted Castiel’s attention, because the paladin jumped up and whirled around, growling. His caduceus was in his hand but that wasn’t what caught Dean’s gaze. 

“Whossit?” he barked, and dear Goddess, his  _ voice…  _ Dean bit his lip as the towel fell, revealing very nice, shapely thighs. And above that…

Dean forced himself to look up, pointedly keeping his eyes on Castiel’s, rubbing his arm where the Mark was still burning. 

“Uh,” he stammered, “Um… sorry, door was open,” he gestured towards the said open door and Castiel frowned, dropping his arm to his side, though his caduceus remained firmly in his grasp. 

“I see,” he said stiffly. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Dean said hurriedly. “After that, we can get the entire Council together to discuss options, if you’re ready-” 

“Wouldn't your Council prefer I be dressed?” Castiel asked, eyes twinkling, and Dean flushed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Of- of course,” he said, inwardly yelling at himself - since when was  _ he  _ the blushing, stammering virgin? Sex was his forte, why was he behaving like a maiden in her first bloom? 

Castiel raised an eyebrow and Dean realized he was still staring at him. Biting back the curse, he whirled around, willing his heart to bloody stop pounding already. 

“I’ll wait outside,” he called quickly, running out and slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the wall right outside the paladin’s room, closing his eyes and muttering under his breath. 

By the Goddess, the  _ fuck  _ was wrong with him today? Yes, Castiel was gorgeous - in any other circumstance, he’d have gone for that ass instantly. But Castiel was a Viridian High Paladin; Dean had about as much chance with him as he did the Viridian Queen herself, which was to say, none at all. 

He needed to find himself a lay for the night, scratch that itch and move on, because this was not happening. 

_ Sam’s underwear,  _ he told himself, breathing in deeply to banish the arousal thrumming through his veins.  _ Bobby naked, Garth’s skinny ass…  _

His magic buzzed a second time and he swore, pressing down on the Mark. It thrummed, once, twice, and he growled a warning at it. A long, angry moment later, it simmered down, the arousal fading slowly as his breath slowed, the pounding of his heart returning to normal. 

A moment later, the door opened again and Castiel stepped out, fully dressed. Dean's treacherous mind flashed back to those toned muscles on full display - they were hidden now, but Benny had laid out Dean's trousers and woolen shirt for him to layer up with, and his libido liked it entirely too much. 

Inwardly cursing, he offered Castiel a weak smile, nodding towards the hallway. Castiel tilted his head in response, not seeming the least bit bothered about the fact that he had just  _ flashed  _ Dean. 

"I apologize for keeping you waiting," he said pleasantly. Dean shook his head. 

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly, "For barging in like that... shoulda knocked." 

"Indeed," Castiel murmured. 

Awkward silence fell between them and Dean sighed, not sure what to say. 

"If you will," Castiel cleared his throat, and Dean shot him a look as they walked through the archway that lead down to the dining hall. 

"Hmm?"

"You mentioned a Council?" Castiel frowned. "Are  _ you  _ not the Lord of the Witherlands?" 

"Doesn't mean I rule alone," Dean answered. "All that power in one dude's hands can get to his head - the Council are a bunch of old coots who make sure we don't forget our duties."

"I see," Castiel said. 

Dean opened his mouth to comment, when the sound of running feet distracted them both. He looked up, barely managing to catch her before he found himself with an armful of small blonde girl, a slender fist punching at his chest irritatedly. 

"Dean, you idiot," Jo huffed, pulling back. "Sam said you jumped into the fucking  _ rapids _ . Are you bloody nuts?" 

"Love you too, kiddo," he grunted, gently pushing her away. "I'm glad you and Sam are gossiping like the teenage girls you are." 

Jo scowled., "Bobby's pissed," she informed him. "And so's Rufus."

Dean rolled his eyes., "When are they not?" he muttered under his breath. 

"Um," Castiel stared between Dean and Jo, who still had her arms wrapped around him. 

"This is Jo," Dean said quickly, "She's like a little sister to me."

Castiel didn't need to know that, of course, but Dean just felt like he needed to clarify - he and Jo had been mistaken for lovers far too many times and he didn't want the High Paladin to get the wrong idea. 

_ As opposed to what? _ he told himself sternly, pushing away traitorous images of the naked Cas he'd just seen. Jo frowned, shooting him a look of confusion at him, before she turned to the Viridian. 

"And who are you?" she snarked, raising a golden brow at him. 

Castiel stepped back and bent low at the waist, offering her a deep bow and a small smile when he straightened back up. 

"Castiel," he said, "Milady."

Jo's lips curved into a wicked grin and she stared between him and Dean, expression turning knowing. "I see," she smirked, "It's good to meet you too." She turned to Dean, who held back a groan - he knew that look. 

"I approve," she sing-songed, "You may keep him." 

"Th-that's not," Dean stammered, "I-'m not, we're not-"

Without waiting for a reply, she shrugged, turning around with that stupid smirk still on her face, heading back into the dining hall. 

"I'm sorry," Dean said, waving after her., "She's a menace." 

Castiel tilted his head, refusing to look at him, and Dean bit back a curse, sighing quietly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed a red flush spreading down the side of the paladin's neck and blinked, a slow smirk lighting his own face. 

Well, well... seemed that the paladin  _ wasn't  _ as unaffected as he appeared after all. 

*-*-*

Castiel felt his neck burn at the insinuation the blonde girl left them behind with. It seemed as though all he'd been doing the past hour was blushing; he breathed in deeply, trying to find the calm that he'd been in before Dean had burst into his room. 

Dean had seen him  _ naked  _ \- the thought sent a low spike of hot desire pooling through his belly. Castiel wasn't a prude or a virgin by any means, and yet, the feeling of those eyes lingering on his calves, on his skin... it left him breathless, wondering what it'd feel like to actually have feel Dean's hands on him. 

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he cleared his throat again and followed Dean through the open doorway and into the dining hall, pausing to take in the sight before him. 

The hall was huge, dimly lit by huge torches that hung by the walls - the flames crackled merrily, spreading warmth into the otherwise cold room, and Castiel was almost surprised to see so how many people were gathered inside. At the centre of the room was a big, long, wooden table - it looked like it could a table meant to house a feast. 

The food on it, however, seemed a paltry in comparison fare compared to what it should have been meant for. Bread, cheese, fruit, and a few plates of meat littered the table, and a few goblets - of wine, Castiel supposed - were placed sporadically in front of several a few people, whom he assumed were the Council members. 

"Castiel," Sam greeted from where he was standing at the edge of the table. Dean had already moved to the other end, talking with an old, dark-skinned man who was glaring at him irritatedly. 

"Your Grace," Castiel returned, and Sam shook his head with a smile. 

"Sam, please," he insisted. The paladin tilted his head in acquiescence, lingering loitering awkwardly, not sure what to do. He was here to find a Necromancer, get answers, and get back to Viridia, not break bread and wine with these people. 

"Find a seat, Cas!" Dean called, as though reading his mind, and Castiel looked up, startled at the nickname - no one except Charlie called him that. The man waved him over, and he stepped forward hesitantly. 

"Here," Sam said kindly, drawing a chair next to his own. "Please, have a seat." 

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel said quietly, sitting down. The rest of the room seemed to pay no attention to him, but a moment later, Dean's voice broke through the chatter. 

"Oi," he said loudly, "Everyone. As you may or may not have noticed, we've an unexpected guest in our midst today."

About twenty pairs of eyes swung around to face Castiel at the same time. He could feel the back of his neck prickle in discomfort, but he ignored it, meeting all their gazes calmly -  one didn't become the High Paladin without having to face crowds of people. 

"He's Viridian," Dean continued, "But don't hold that against him." 

The curious expressions turned into scowls and frowns. Sam sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes at his brother's dramatics, and next to him, a young woman with long, dark hair snorted softly. 

"I'm calling a Council Meet after this," Dean said, his voice hardening, "Eileen's been experimenting with a new spell," he waved towards the woman next to Sam, who nodded. 

"I may have a way to grow more," she said, and Castiel was surprised to realize that she was deaf. He kept his face impassive, however, smiling slightly at the way Dean simply nodded at her - this was a regular occurrence, then. 

"No shop talk at the dinner table, boy," a tall, bony woman scolded from the other end of the table. A bob of dark hair framed her face, which held features, which were similar to the blonde -  _ Jo _ , Castiel recalled - from earlier. 

"We have a guest tonight too," she continued and Dean looked at Castiel with a smirk. 

"Yeah," he agreed, "Well, we do have a feast then, don't we?" He looked around the table, gaze lingering on Castiel, the his expression in them fierce. 

"Dig in, everyone," he said, but his eyes remained on the paladin, as though daring him to comment on the poor fare of plain bread and cheese that was placed on his dish. Castiel didn't flinch, didn't look away, instead he reaching out for the food calmly and took taking a bite of it. He dipped the bread into a the bowl of meat-filled gravy that rested next to it, and then chewed on it carefully, closing his eyes to savor the flavor. 

"This is exquisite," he said loudly, "My compliments to the chef." 

The chatter around the table vanished, silence falling around them like a heavy, stifling blanket as they all stared at him. 

It was the dark-haired elderly woman who broke it. 

"Well, thank you, Viridian," she said, a half-smile on her face. "Nice to be complimented once in a while," she glared pointedly around the table and they all had the grace to look sheepish, wincing lightly. 

"Goddamn, Ellen," an older, bearded man wearing a strange hat said gruffly, "Y'know your hands have magic." 

"Aw, Bobby," Jo said teasingly, "Is this what passes as flirting between you and Mom?" 

"Joanna Beth, that's enough from you," Ellen said sternly, though her eyes were twinkling. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Castiel thought he saw an expression of happy surprise on Dean's face, but when he looked up, the elder Winchester was back to looking impassive. 

Smiling to himself, Castiel returned to his meal, wondering if this counted as gaining the man's favor. He needed every advantage he could get to save Charlie. 

And if a traitorous part of him whispered that he enjoyed making Dean smile, well then, no one else had to know about that part anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

Dean couldn't remember being this confused ever in his entire life. Castiel, the High Paladin of Viridia... sinfully attractive and strangely naïve, the man's disposition was one that Dean hadn't ever expected from a Viridian, much less the second-in-command to the Crown at that. 

He'd been constantly challenging the man, Dean knew - from the moment he'd saved him, Dean had dumped all the emotional baggage he carried from Dad's death and everything else on to Castiel. And he hadn't backed down from it; the paladin defended his people when he felt it to be necessary, but instead of persecuting the Fallen people like most Viridians were wont to doing, Castiel sat amongst them like he belonged here, chatting and laughing with Sam and Jo easily. 

It was a diametric shift in Dean's world. Viridians were stuck-up bastards who turned their noses up down at the Witherlands for a multitude of reasons including - but not limited to - the murder of their Queen and the magic they practiced.

But Castiel  _ wasn't  _ stuck-up; neither was he turning his nose up down at them and the paltry feast Ellen had hastily thrown together in his honor. 

Had he misjudged all Viridians, then? Or was their High Paladin someone special? 

Sighing quietly, Dean rubbed his eyes, wishing he could just fucking jump into bed and sleep already. It'd been a long day and he was tired, from the unexpected swim and using magic without the Blade. 

But there was still the Council Meet he had to get to - Castiel's agenda had to be exploited, and Sam had reported earlier on that Eileen had had some success with the new spell to grow grain. Dean couldn't afford to be selfish. 

So he grit his teeth and marched into the Council's official chambers, where they conducted business. Bobby and Rufus were already there, as were Crowley and Rowena. Meg was in a corner, twirling a dagger in her hands, looking bored, and Dean looked around for her cousin - Alistair never missed a meeting. 

"Sorry we're late," Sam called, sliding in, Eileen at his side. Cas -  _ Castiel _ , Dean reminded himself sternly - followed more sedately, looking impassive, and he wondered how the rest of them were going to react to a am Viridian being in the midst of a Council Meet. 

"Sit your ass down, boy," Rufus snorted. "We're still waitin' on Ellen and Alistair." 

Sam looked around, brows knitting together in a frown as he sighed. 

"And I'm here, you old fart," Ellen announced, walking into the room and taking her place next to Bobby, who grinned up at her. 

"As am I," Alistair's oily voice had Dean wincing and he turned to where the elder man was moving forward to sit next to by his cousin. He paused, though, eyes falling on Castiel, and  _ fuck _ , Dean should've seen this coming. 

"And who's  _ this _ ?" he asked, looking the paladin up and down. There was that manic gleam in his eyes that Dean knew very, very well - once, that gleam had excited the fuck out of him, in and outside of the bedroom. 

Now, watching it be directed towards Cas sent a sickening feeling swooping through his stomach. 

"Castiel," Ellen said, "whom you'd know if you came to dinner like  _ you  _ were asked," she said pointedly and Dean held back a smirk - no one said no to Ellen and got away with it. 

"Well, we can't all live in the castle and eat with the best of them, Milady," Alistair said with a soft smirk. 

Sam stiffened, as did Bobby, both of them opening their mouths to defend her - the implication that Ellen slacked off in the castle had sent his own blood boiling and Dean growled low in his throat. 

"Alistair," he said warningly. "Mind it." 

"Did I say something wrong?" the man's smile turned predatory. "Hosting a Viridian at the castle, and now, he's at a Council Meet... what  _ exactly  _ is your relationship with him, Lord Winchester?"

Dean flinched, but before he could defend himself, Rowena spoke up, raising a very crimson eyebrow at him. 

"I'd like to know that myself, cupcake," she said. "Viridians are..." she glanced at Castiel, and then continued, "notorious." 

"I'm not here to cause trouble," Castiel said softly. 

"Look, everyone," Sam began, "You can't-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Meg interrupted. "Dean wants to bone him, Sam's got an agenda and the angelic-looking Clarence here has shit he wants from us. Can we just get on with it already?" 

Dean watched Castiel flush from the corner of his eyes at Meg's _ ‘bone him’ _ comment, but the man didn't remark on it, allowing the elder Winchester to take the lead on this. 

"Thanks for the very vivid imagery, Meg," Dean said wryly. "I can always count on you to cut the bullshit." 

"Just wanna help my fearless leader," she said sweetly, her smirk shark-like. He rolled sighed, rolling his eyes and clapped his hands, making sure he had everyone's attention before continuing. 

"Can we all just sit?" he snapped, "I'm happy to stand around and sing Kumbaya all day, but we do have some planning to do."

"Not to sound like a broken record," Crowley said silkily, and Dean suppressed a groan, "But I  _ would  _ like to know what that Viridian is doing here. I'm not surprised you," he sneered at Ellen, "bleeding hearts decided to feed and clothe him - by all means, waste valuable food on him if you'd like, but why is he  _ here _ ?" 

" _ He _ ," Dean said through gritted teeth, "Has a name. And he's here on  _ my  _ invitation." 

He stood, spine straight, summoning his magic and allowing it to sizzle beneath his skin. Across him, he heard Cas suck in a deep breath as the Mark pulsed, once, twice, as Dean pressed down on the First Blade he'd gone back to collect from his chambers before he'd come to the Meet. He wouldn't admit it, but a part of him enjoyed the wide-eyed surprise on the paladin's face. 

How would that look translate into the bedroom, if Dean had him writhing beneath him? 

Banishing the thought, he glared around the table, lingering on each of the Council members, daring them to oppose his authority. They had power yes, but he was the goddamned  _ Dorcha  _ for a reason - he had chosen and was chosen by the Mark in return and that held weight within the Fallen. 

When none of them raised any further objections, Dean sighed and sat back down, pointedly setting the First Blade in front of him. Alistair's eyes followed the movement, but Dean ignored him - whatever they'd had was long over and he wasn't interested in rekindling anything any time soon. 

"Sam," he said, "Will you-?" he nodded towards the door and Sam stood up. He grabbed his own blade and quickly cut the tip of his index finger. 

Dean observed Castiel as Sam traced the sigils for privacy, silence, and secrecy on to the door as always; the paladin's expression didn't look so much disgusted as it did curious - the Necromancer was well aware that the Viridians were squeamish about blood -magic.

He felt his own magic buzz in response to the forcefield that settled around them once Sam was done. Gesturing for his brother to join the rest of the Council, he banged his fist against the table, making sure he had everyone's attention. 

"The Council is in session," he said, "Let's start with Eileen." 

The brunette smiled, her dark eyes gleaming as she pulled out a vial and placed it on the middle of the table. 

"As you all know," she began, "I've been working with the scientists and sorcerers to try and figure out a way to get our crops to grow faster. The way we see it, we have a twofold problem - one is the cold weather, the second is the magic surrounding these parts." 

"The magic doesn't allow for more than a few crops to grow and those that do grow die out faster than we can harvest them because of the cold," Sam summed it up. 

"The problem is that the magic we contain in the Witherlands is the magic of Death," Eileen continued, "Which prevents Life from coming into being." 

"Why are you repeating what we already know, child?" Rowena sounded bored. Eileen spared her a glance before pushing the vial to the centre of the table. 

"What we need," she stressed, "Is a way to harness the magic of Life so that we can grow more crops." 

"Tactical problem," Crowley snorted. "Can't exactly grow around stealing Life magic, can we? Though..." his beady eyes gleamed and he turned to Castiel with a smirk, "We  _ do  _ have a Viridian here, don't we?" 

Dean shared an alarmed look with Sam - how the  _ fuck  _ did Crowley know that Cas had magic?

"I know what you're thinking," Dean growled, "But that ain't happenin'. We ain't usin' Cas to grow our crops for us." 

"But if I could offer my assistance in any way," Cas began, "I'd like to-"

"Wouldn't work," Sam interrupted, his voice kind but firm. "You're going back to Viridia as soon as you can, Cas, it wouldn't be a long-term plan." 

"Even if you could grow crops for us now, boy," Rufus finished, "The grain would die out after ya leave and take your Life magic with you." 

Cas frowned, but nodded and subsided - Dean bit back a curse as he realized that they'd just revealed that he  _ did  _ have magic. Not all Viridians possessed it, he knew, just as not all of the Fallen were Necromancers. But the Council knew now. 

He'd wanted to put off revealing Cas's identity as long as he could; Sam's earlier warning about Andrea and Peter reverberated in his skull and he sighed, forcing himself to pay attention to what Eileen.

"So the question is," she was saying, "finding a source of Life magic that we can sustain. We can't create it, but we can harness what already exists."

She patted the vial gently and smiled - Dean noticed, for the first time, how tired she looked. 

"While crops don’t doesn't grow in abundance, we do have quite a lot of the wildlife around these parts," she said, "If we can trap and extract Life from some of them, we could use it to grow our grain." 

Meg snorted. "Dunno if you've noticed, princess," she drawled, "but we don't have game to hunt anymore. No venison, no bison, not even deer have been sighted in the past year. What wildlife are you talkin' about?"

Eileen grinned triumphantly. 

"That's exactly it," she said, sounding more excited than he'd ever heard her., "You're all thinking big. I'm talking micro, tiny organisms. Do you know the sheer number of insects that surround the Witherlands?" 

"So you'd like to harvest the insect-life around here," Castiel said slowly, "Use their inherent magic of Life they possess to grow your crops?" 

There was a note of something dark in his voice, something Dean couldn't place - he didn't know if it was derision or anger, but he ignored it, facing Eileen instead. 

"What's the feasibility of this?" he asked. "Pulling magic from animal life is easy enough, but to harness it and direct it...?"

She shrugged, "We're not sure," she admitted. "That vial over there..." she swallowed, her expression turning pale and tired, but the fierceness of her determination remained, "cost us an entire ant colony."

"And how much does it allow us to grow?" Bobby asked. 

"Again," she said, "We don't know, but we're estimating an acre worth?" 

"Have you attempted constructing a greenhouse?" Castiel spoke up and they turned to him collectively, Sam frowning. 

"Greenhouse?" Dean repeated. Castiel nodded, meeting his eyes defiantly. 

"While this  _ is  _ an extremely smart idea," he admitted, "It's also not feasible in the long run. Destroying colonies of insects would upset the delicate balance of the earth - you need them to clear out the waste, to use the residue and keep the system running smoothly."

"Yes, well," Dean said harshly, "Balance is precarious. Feeding my people this winter is a bit more important to me than making sure the earth is still spinning in the next decade - someone else can take that burden."

"You can't forget the long-term picture, Dean," Castiel insisted, "I understand that you need to ensure food safety for this winter, but if all the insects die out, what then? Not only will your source of magic fade, you will also be left with an imbalanced system that will cause more harm than good." 

"So what do you suggest then, Mr. Viridian?" Alistair interjected siklily. "We're...  _ open  _ to suggestions."

Dean turned his glare on at the elder man, but Castiel didn't seem to notice the way he was leering at him, frowning instead at the vial Eileen had placed on the table. 

"It could work," he said slowly, "if you combined it with another source. Build a greenhouse,” he repeated. “Instead of pulling Life to grow crops, use it to capture the little solar power you receive here - that will take far less energy and the environmental impact you will cause will also be much less.” 

He looked at Dean, expression filled with conviction. “And I can help,” he added, “I can try to work a self-sustaining spell that will help you redirect the Life into growing grain.” 

Eileen and Sam shared a look and they bent their heads together, signing between themselves. Their hands - already moving far too quickly for Dean and his limited sign language to follow - were hidden enough under by the table enough that Dean couldn’t catch much of their conversation. Instead, he turned to the rest of the Council members, who looked thoughtful. 

“Thoughts?” he demanded impatiently. “Other options?”

“Why,” Bobby said, “would a Viridian wanna help us?” He raised a hand to stall the protest that Dean had at the ready, simply turning back to Castiel with raised eyebrows. “I’m sorry to keep harpin’ on this,” he continued firmly, “But the truth is that Viridians haven’t given a rat’s ass about the Fallen for the past few decades. Why now?” 

“Bobby,” Dean hissed, “are you questioning my-”

“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel shook his head. “Their concerns are valid,” he met Bobby’s probing gaze without flinching, and Dean subsided, sensing that this was something that needed to be said. The rest of the Council fell silent, watching Castiel intently, waiting for his response. 

“You’re right to be distrustful of Viridians,” he continued, “But despite our… complicated history, I’m not here to cause harm to your people. I just want to help.” 

“That’s what your High Paladin said the last time he was here,” Bobby returned harshly. “Joshua, is it? He said he was gonna help - and then stood by and watched as yer Regent shut it all down.” 

Dean realized with a start that Joshua had to have been Cas’s mentor; sorrow flashed across his face before his schooled his features into an expression of impassiveness, bowing his head low to Bobby. 

“I’m not Joshua,” he said clearly. “I want to help.” 

“And why, cupcake,” Crowley snarled, “should we want your help? We’re quite capable of taking care of ourselves.” 

Castiel nodded., “Indeed,” he agreed. “I would not be presumptuous enough to assume that my help could save you, not entirely,” he looked up at Dean, eyes flashing, “I’m not here to be altruistic; I require a service. You require magic. I propose that we barter, help one another.” 

“And what service would that be, son?” Ellen’s voice was cautious, her expression guarded. _ She may want peace,  _ Dean mused, _ but Ellen wasn’t stupid.  _

“I require the services of a Necromancer,” he announced, “to raise someone from the dead. In return, I will help Miss Eileen,” he nodded his head towards her where she and Sam were watching quietly, “with her project and ensure that your people do not die of starvation.” 

“And if the spell doesn’t work?” Meg demanded, “You can use magic all you want, sweetcheeks, but power is finicky. What happens if it vanishes after you leave?” 

Castiel’s brow furrowed as he considered it. “I…” he looked around, biting his lower lip, “I have some… pull,” he said, “with the Crown. I could attempt to get trade reopened. If all else fails, I will at least be able to send for help.” 

“Your Regent hates us,” Rufus pointed out. “He ain't gonna wanna reopen trade.” 

“Not the Regent,” Castiel shook his head. There was a strange tightness to his voice and his expression; Dean’s eyes narrowed as he took note of the way the paladin’s lips pursed together. There was something he wasn’t saying. 

“I mean the Crown,” he continued, “The rightful heir to the throne.” 

“And who’s that?” Crowley snorted. “Your girlfriend?”

Castiel spared him a quick glance. “Her Highness,” he replied coolly, “considers me family. Were I to suggest reopening trade, she would listen to me.” 

Silence fell around the table as they all considered it; it was Alistair who broke it. 

“And who exactly are  _ you  _ then, Castiel?” he demanded. “How do you have such pull with the Crown?” 

Castiel looked at Dean, opening his mouth to answer. The Dorcha shook his head quickly, keeping the movement as subtle as he could - he didn't want the Council to know who he was, not yet. A Viridian was one thing - maybe even a paladin - but the High Paladin, who had been apprenticed to the previous one no less, was not someone they’d welcome take lightly. 

Righteous indignation flashed across the man’s face and for a moment, Dean thought he was gonna defy him and declare his true identity openly. But Castiel surprised him yet again, bowing his head to the Council and simply sighing. 

“I was raised in the castle,” he said tightly, by way of an explanation. “My father was…” he hesitated and then continued, “He worked in the stables. I grew up with Princess Charlie - I taught her to ride, in fact.” 

“And she listens to you?” Rufus asked skeptically. 

Castiel nodded. “Indeed,” he reassured them. “She considers me family; we were two lonely kids growing up together, we became pretty close.” There was a wistful tone in his voice that made Dean think that he wasn’t entirely making this conversation up - this Princess Charlie certainly did mean a lot to Castiel, from the looks of it. 

He sternly told himself that the hot swoop of his belly was  _ not  _ jealousy. 

“All of this makes sense,” Eileen finally spoke up again, “And I admit, Castiel, that it could even work. But,” she glanced down at Sam, who nodded quietly, “What do you want of us? Whom do you wish to raise?” 

For the first time since they’d met, Dean watched Castiel become utterly pensieve, his expression openly tired and worried. He didn't say anything for a long, quiet moment, as though gathering his strength and the Dorcha wondered who it was that he needed to cross the Veil for. 

Most people, when they asked to talk to those who’d passed, usually wanted some kind of closure - the other types were those who just couldn't let go. In Dean’s experience, neither hurt less; all magic came with a price, and Necromancy more so than other types. It was why so many Viridians thought it was dark. Blood-magic was binding and powerful - it could quickly turn ugly, if one didn't know what one was doing. 

“It’s a matter of State,” he said at last. “I do apologize, but no one except the Necromancer may know about this. I must speak to someone who passed this week about an urgent, rather sensitive matter - he died before he could deliver some important information to me.”

“How do we know that this information isn't gonna come back to bite us in the ass?” Meg asked sharply. “And the fuck do you think we should help you at all?” 

Castiel shrugged. “You don't know,” he said, “And you’re not obligated to help. But I came here because this was my last resort - and you really don't have any other options either. So I suggest we remain mutually beneficial to one another and live to see another day.” 

The man had spunk, Dean had to admit. He was impressed by the utter calm with which Cas seemed to be handling this. He looked at his brother, raising an eyebrow, and Sam nodded, answering his unasked question without a word. He turned to Eileen next and she shrugged, signing,  _ Worth a try.  _

Ellen, and Bobby, and Rufus were talking quietly in their corners and Crowley was frowning, as was Alistair. Meg, on the other hand, still looked bored, but Dean noticed how her grip on her dagger had tightened, her movements as she spun it now far more pronounced compared to the lazy rolls of earlier. 

“What d’ya think, idjit?” Bobby asked Dean. 

He shrugged in response. “Don't got much of a choice, do we?” he answered honestly. “Can't be worse off than we are now - if he says he’s got a spell that can help, or pull with the princess… why not use it?” 

“And who will be assigned to raise his dead man, Dean?” Alistair sneered. He turned to Castiel, eyeing him lasciviously, lips curved into a smirk, “I could offer my-”

“No,” Dean said loudly, cutting him off. Everyone looked at him and he felt himself flush, but he didn't back down, instead glaring at Alistair. “ _ I’m  _ doing it.” 

Sam looked startled. “Dean, you can't-” he protested, but the elder Winchester cut him off. 

“And why not?” he demanded. “I’m the best Necromancer we’ve got.”

“You’re also the Lord of the Witherlands!” Sam exclaimed. “Speaking beyond the Veil is a hard prospect at the best of times, we can't lose you too-” 

“I’m the goddamned  _ Dorcha _ for a fucking reason, Sam,” he snapped back. “This is not your decision to make.” 

He met Sam’s angry gaze with a hard look of his own; yes, calling to the passed wasn’t easy and often led to painful instances such as the Necromancer going mad or giving in to the temptation to raise the dead and control them instead of speak to them. But Dean knew when to call it, knew how to balance the tightrope of Life and Death easily - something Sam could never quite manage completely, which was why the Mark worked for Dean far better than it ever could for his brother. 

“Fine,” he said quietly. “As you wish,  _ Milord _ .” 

There was a palpable bitterness to Sam’s tone and Dean held back a flinch - he was gonna have to make it up to his brother later. 

His gaze moved from Sam to Castiel, who was staring at him with undisguised surprise. Dean raised an eyebrow and he flushed, shaking his head at having been caught, turning impassive again. Around them, the Council began to stand, shrugging and talking amongst themselves. 

“Castiel,” Bobby’s voice was hard as he spoke up. “We dunno know ya, but you seem like a decent guy, so we’re willin’ to give ya a chance. But word of warning?” he leveled the High Paladin with a harsh look, “Screw us over, and we won’t let it go, boy.” 

Without waiting for another word, Bobby turned his back, pulling out his blade. Dean watched as he pricked his finger to fade the sigil on the door to get it to open again, sighing - Bobby had lost Karen the same winter Dad died, and for all that he seemed to have moved on (if his flirting with Ellen was anything to go by), he was still definitely holding a grudge. 

Castiel nodded, accepting the pronouncement with grace. Ellen patted him on the shoulder as she swept past, and the rest of them filed out one by one, barely offering him a passing glance. 

In the end, only Sam, Eileen and Dean himself were left with the paladin, who deflated before their eyes, sagging in his seat tiredly. 

“Well,” he murmured, “That was quite…” he sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes, and Dean reminded himself that he wasn’t the only one who jumped into a river today. 

“You handled yourself well,” he told him, and Castiel smiled wanly. 

“Comes from years of practice,” he said tiredly. “The Regent is…” he trailed off, straightening up quickly, casting a glance at both Sam and Eileen, as though realizing where he was. The mask of cool, impassive paladin fell into place again, and Dean’s heart leapt - he wanted to look below it, strip away the politics and the pretext and find out what made Cas tick. 

It was a dangerous thing to think, he knew, so he pushed it away and watched as Eileen got to her feet and smiled excitedly at Cas. 

“You can really work a solar spell?” she asked, “I’ve considered greenhouses, but the lack of the sun was a big factor, so I wasn’t sure how to work it.” 

Castiel tilted his head, nodding.  _ Indeed, _ he signed,  _ I’m not entirely certain how to do it, but I’m sure I can come up with something.  _

“You can sign?” Dean asked in surprise. 

Blue eyes fixed themselves on him and Dean flushed, looking away from that piercing gaze. 

“I can,” Castiel said, “One of the things my-uh… my father taught me.” 

The way he paused on the word ‘father’ told Dean that he wasn’t talking about his actual Dad but probably the previous High Paladin, Joshua - his mentor. 

A bitter taste stung his mouth and Dean breathed in deeply. Much as he liked Cas - and he was startled to realize that  _ yes _ , he did like this cool-as-cucumber, defiant, and stalwart paladin - he had to remember that the man had learnt everything he knew from the same paladin who’d stood by and watched as the Witherlands were forever doomed. 

He must have, at the very least, inherited imbibed much of the prejudice that Joshua had had, even if he was not overtly racist or discriminatory. 

Dean knew from experience how dangerous internalized ideologies could be; it’d taken him a decade and two failed relationships - Lisa’s broken heart and Alistair’s abusive treatment - to overcome the issues surrounding his sexuality. 

He wasn’t ready to deal with Castiel too, whatever his issues were. 

So he simply cleared his throat and got to his feet, waving towards the door. 

“Alright, you smartasses,” he said, “Plan tomorrow. Bed now.” 

Eileen smirked, grabbing Sam’s arm and winding her own around it.  _ Bed time, indeed,  _ she signed gleefully, and Dean hooted at the way his brother blushed, wrapping his own arm around her small waist and bringing her close. 

“You're a menace,” he grumbled and she leaned up to place a sweet kiss on his cheek. 

_ That’s why you love me,  _ she signed and he rested his head on top of hers. Dean’s heart grew about three times as he watched them together - not only did he love Eileen in a way he hadn’t loved Jess, it just made him giddy to see his brother finally be happy again. 

“Way to go, Sammy, ya bitch,” Dean whistled and Sam rolled his eyes, leading her out the door. 

“Go fuck yourself, jerk,” he called out cheerily over his shoulders. “Bye, Cas!”

Castiel chuckled, standing up, and Dean’s eyes were drawn to the way his biceps rippled as he stretched out like a cat. 

“You’re very close to him,” the paladin remarked. They both walked out of the Council chambers together, keeping to abreast of one another’s pace, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Dean was tempted to reach out and tug him into his side just as Sam had done with Eileen. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “After Dad…” he shrugged, “I practically raised the kid, I guess. Though Bobby and Ellen helped. And Rufus.” 

“You’re a family,” there was a rueful tone to Castiel’s voice and Dean looked down at him, raising a questioning eyebrow. 

“And you and Charlie?” he asked pointedly. “Didn't exactly tell us that the princess was your family, didja?” 

There was an accusation hidden somewhere there that Dean didn't want to dig into too deeply - he  _ shouldn't _ want to know Cas, shouldn't feel betrayed that the paladin wasn’t telling them everything. He’d known the man for all of one day and he was the Viridian High Paladin to boot. 

“She’s…” Castiel’s expression turned haunted, the walls falling away a second time that night and Dean held his breath, afraid that they’d slam be slammed back up just as quickly. “Charlie’s all I have left,” he admitted. 

“Which is why,” his gaze turned steely. “I need to speak to Samandriel as soon as possible,  _ Dorcha _ .” 

Castiel didn't bother hiding his accusation like Dean did - his gaze was fierce, determined, and Dean flinched as though he’d been hit. 

“The dead guy?” he deflected, and Castiel’s expression closed off again, even as he nodded in agreement. 

“Yes,” he said. “He has holds information I need immediately - Viridia is…” he hesitated and then forced out, “Well, Viridia needs to be protected. And Samandriel died before he could tell me what he had to do.” 

“It ain't that easy,” Dean said, ducking through the archway that led out of the dining hall and into a corridor that wound its way to the guest chambers. Castiel followed, frowning. 

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “If it’s a question of payment, I told you, I’ll help with the spell, but isn't raising the dead what you do, what your magic  _ does _ ?” 

_ Typical, _ Dean mused bitterly,  _ that Viridians didn't even know the difference between raising the dead and speaking to them.  _ They sat in their high and mighty palaces, judged the Fallen, and yet, when they needed them, didn't hesitate to use them for their own purposes, no matter the cost of Necromancy. 

“We don't  _ raise  _ the dead,” he snapped, and Castiel stared at him in surprise, taken aback by the venom in his voice. “We  _ speak  _ to them - honor them and request them to aid us.” 

“I apologize,” he said softly, after a moment of a tense silence. “There’s…” he trailed off, sighing deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. “I admit I don’t know much about the magic you practice.”

“Because we’re the Fallen, right?” Dean finished for him, “Who use dark magic?” His laugh was humorless, cynical, and from Castiel’s flinch, he heard the bitterness that Dean had been trying to hold back the whole day. 

“Dean, I -” he began, but the Dorcha simply waved his hand, shrugging. They came to a stop in front of Castiel’s chambers and he opened the door, gesturing inside. 

“Nothin’ I haven’t heard before,” he said quietly. “But my magic is the only thing that’s gonna help you. So why don't we discuss it tomorrow morning when we’re both not fallin’ over our feet?” 

Castiel nodded. 

“That sounds amenable to me,” he frowned. “Though I do need to return to Viridia immediately after you raise…, uh allow me to speak to Samandriel.” 

“Like I said,” Dean repeated. “Ain't gonna be that easy. We’ll see.” 

He looked beyond Castiel to check the room - Benny had returned when the Council was in session to restoke the fire, he noticed. It was roaring away merrily, and the image of a naked Castiel, leaning in front of it, his tattoos glistening with water droplets, flashed across his eyes. 

Abruptly, he turned away, stepping back and pushing the paladin inside. 

“Good night, Cas,” he said tightly. 

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel murmured softly, lingering for a long, charged moment before stepping into his room. 

The door swung shut after him and Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair and turning back to head to his own chambers. 

He had a feeling he was gonna need the rest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

The night passed poorly for the High Paladin.

Castiel tossed and turned within the comforts of the guest chambers that he’d been given; the bed itself was soft and fluffy, but the blankets were extremely heavy and thick, and although they kept him warm, they were also suffocating for someone who was used to sleeping in the nude. The fire had gone out early on, and he’d been too exhausted to relight stoke and feed it, which meant that the room was getting chillier as the night wore on.

Viridia was never this cold - right now, it was the middle of summer back home, with temperatures almost bordering on almost too hot. Castiel often walked around in just trousers and a light, sleeveless tunic if he could, alongside the only weapons he carried his caduceus and his trusty sword.

The Witherlands were Viridia’s opposite in every way. It was summer, but Castiel was freezing; if this was an indication of how the Fallen went about their lives, he could understand the anger they bore for the Viridians - for the Crown and the High Paladin, both of whom had simply endorsed leaving them to their fates.

They would hate Castiel if they knew who he was and all that he represented.

How did Dean not hate him?

The thought made his stomach churn unpleasantly and Castiel sighed, rolling over for the hundredth time and staring at the ceiling. Sleep eluded him was elusive, and he closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply and seek the calm he needed.

Dean Winchester - _Dorcha_ of the Witherlands.

All his life, from the moment Joshua had looked into his eyes and chosen him as his apprentice, Castiel had been taught that the Fallen of the Witherlands were a people to be feared, because the magic they used was dark. _The Magic of Death,_ Castiel recalled Joshua’s grim voice telling him, was a power that had led Prince Lucifer into darkness.

And of all those Necromancers, the Dorcha was the most powerful one, carrying the Mark of Cain. Once a reminder of love between brothers, the Mark had turned dark soon after Lucifer’s betrayal; it was said to have been passed down his bloodline, and the one carrying it would the most powerful Necromancer of them all -

Castiel shot up in bed, heart thudding as the realization hit him.

Dean was descended from Lucifer himself - the Winchesters were his direct line. Which meant…

Charlie was his _cousin_.

Dean could contest her claim to for the throne if he so wished - so could Sam.  

He’d known peripherally, he supposed, when he’d met them at first. To be Lord of the Witherlands meant that he carried some royal blood. But he’d pushed that thought to the back of his mind - the idea that a Fallen leader could even think about commanding Viridia was beyond far-fetched.

But now…

Dean had said that raising - _speaking_ \- to Samandriel wouldn't be easy. What if this was what he meant? What if he was plotting a way to steal Charlie’s throne?

He wouldn't - he _couldn't_ , Castiel tried to tell himself. Because Dean seemed like a reasonable, honorable man who cared about his people.

But how long had he even known him? It’d be the a perfect revenge for all the humiliation and pain his people had had to face since the borders were closed off; what if Dean was going to demand something Castiel couldn't give? What if Charlie was going to get hurt worse than where she was currently?

Troubled, Castiel breathed out slowly, counting to five. He inhaled again, keeping count, to fall into the pattern of breathing that would help him find calm.

 _He wouldn’t,_ he vowed silently, _do anything that would hurt the Crown,_ he vowed _._ Charlie was the heir - the _only_ heir to the Viridian throne, and he would do everything in his power to set her back on it.

Dorcha or nor Dorcha, Castiel’s power as High Paladin was not to be taken lightly. And no matter how much Dean’s magic called out to his own, he was not going to give in - he was here to help Charlie, to perform his duty as her second-in-command.

He could not be swayed by the suffering of the Fallen; he had to remind himself that they practiced dark magic on a regular basis, crossed the Veil of Life and reached into Death daily. He would help them, yes, offer them his services - in return for Dean’s help. It would be a business transaction, nothing more, and then he’d return to Viridia, free Charlie and set her on the throne.

He needed the truth.

And Dorcha Dean Winchester could not be allowed to stand in his way, no matter how much he made Castiel’s belly swoop with desire.

With a determined shake of his head, Castiel swung his legs over the side of the bed, throwing the covers off. It was still dark outside, but he could not sleep any longer. Who knew when the sun rose in the Witherlands, anyway?

Quickly moving into the bathroom, he splashed water on his face, drawing on a pair of comfortable pants and a tunic. The guard - _Benny_ , he recalled - had stopped by last night to drop off extra furs and woolen robes for him, warning him to be careful with those. He wrapped one a woolen robe around him now, carefully tying it together and breathing in deeply.

Before he left the room, he grabbed his caduceus and his blade out of his bag, strapping them to his waist, sighing at the familiar weight of them by side. He was too restless, his mind too scattered to find the calm from his breathing. At times like that, he’d found, the best way to combat the chaos was to work it out of his system - a good run would help. Or finding someone to spar with would work as well; surely the Witherlands had a training arena for soldiers to fight?

He jogged out of the room, following the hallway down all the way outside the castle. He flinched as the cold air assaulted him the second he stepped out; it was almost as cold here as it was tended to be in the middle of Viridia’s winter.

How could two countries, of the same land - separated only by a single mountain range and a few hundred miles of forests - be so vastly different?

Marveling at the effects of magic, Castiel drew his woolen tunic tighter around himself and took off, heading for the stables - he remembered the winding path ways he’d ridden up yesterday, and mused that he could at least run there through those.

He needed to work some steam off.

*-*-*

Dean yawned as he stepped out of his room, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was later than usual, he knew, but fuck it, what was the point of being the Lord of the Witherlands if he couldn't sleep in once in a while? He was still exhausted from yesterday - his magic was drained and he physically ached from the exertion of struggling with the icy rapids.

Which was why he’d decided to skip the usual morning training with Benny and head straight for Ellen’s kitchen, stomach growling loudly. Accepting her daily hug and cuff on the ear and hug, he grabbed a mug of coffee. The fresh scent of it woke him up and he breathed it in, savoring the heat of the liquid against his cold palms as he walked out of the castle.

The sounds of loud yelling and delighted catcalls caught his attention and the Dorcha frowned, turning to head in that direction. His scowl deepened when he realized that the yells were coming from the direction of the training arena - the soldiers should have all completed their morning regimen by now, so who could be causing the commotion?

The answer should’ve been obvious, but it took Dean a moment to realize what he was seeing - _Castiel_ , fighting close-combat with none other than Benny who, from the looks of it, was losing.

Benny was the best fighter they had - the only people who had ever been able to defeat him in battle were Sam and Dean himself. It was why he was the head guard at the castle; he was the only one Dean trusted to defend their last safehold when he was out in battle.

But it wasn’t the surprise of watching Benny lose that had Dean freezing in his tracks, his grip on the mug tightening until his knuckles were white.

It was the way Castiel _moved_ , the way his dark hair flopped over his face, drenched in sweat - it was the quick ripple of his muscles as they flexed beneath the simple sleeveless tunic he wore, hot enough from the exertion that he’d shed the woolen coverup Dean had sent over last night.

 _Fuck_.

Dean had never seen anything more _beautiful_ , more _deadly_ than the High Paladin. He was grace personified, nimble on his feet as he challenged Benny, side-stepping the bear of a man easily to avoid his attack. He moved back, thrusting his own short blade at the guard, who ducked and grabbed his arm, preventing him from moving.

 _Caught ’cha,_ Dean thought smugly, wondering what the paladin was going to do now.

“Give?” Benny demanded.

“Yeah, Benny!” Jo cheered from the side, where she was leaning against the fence, watching in rapt attention. The rest of the crowd gathered there were all castle staff, Dean noticed, quietly joining them, not taking his eyes off of Castiel.

Really, they should’ve known better than to underestimate him - because all he did was smile politely, offering Benny that damn head tilt. He then crouched, throwing himself off of his feet and jumping over Benny’s head in a move that was so graceful, the guard’s jaw dropped open and he let go of Castiel’s blade in surprise.

“Never,” he declared, “Would you?”

Benny’s grin was wide and predatory, having found a worthy opponent - Dean didn't think he’d seen him that happy in a long while.

“In you dreams, Chief,” he retorted, and surged forward, thrusting his own blade at the High Paladin, who blocked it easily with a parry of his own.

Goddess save him, Castiel was fucking beautiful.

Dean closed his eyes, breathing in deeply to calm the _boom-boom_ of his heart, to soothe the arousal that was thrumming through his veins.

By the Goddess… how was he so attracted to an enemy?

He breathed out deeply, dipping his thumb into the still-burning coffee in his hands. The heat grounded him, the pain more visceral than the way his nether regions were stirring, and he swallowed hard, calling out loudly.

“Right, that’s enough, boys!” he declared. “It’s almost midday, everyone get your asses back to work!”

“Don't be a grumpy guts, Dean!” came Jo’s annoyed protest from his side and he shot her a withering look.

“Does Ellen know you’re out here?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow. Mother and daughter were in charge of running the day-to-day of the castle; where Ellen was trying to get Jo to pay more attention to the kitchens and supplies, the blonde was interested leading her own troop of female guards. She’d approached Dean with the idea a while back - almost everyone in the castle could fight, but Dean had to admit that he liked the idea of having a few trained soldiers planted amongst them as a surprise for any army who managed to take the castle.

But that didn't mean he was stupid enough to cross Ellen, which was why he he glared down at her now, ignoring her irritated grumbles.

“Asshole,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and jumping off of the fence. Around them, the crowd had started to disperse, both Castiel and Benny having halted their match to stare out at Dean.

“He’s quite good, eh brotha?” Benny grinned, breathing heavily. Dean smirked back at him.

“You mean he’s kickin’ your ass,” he teased. “Old man.”

“Watch it, Dean,” Benny’s eyes narrowed at him. “I taught ya to fight when you were a kid.”

Dean’s grin split his face at the reminder., “And the student surpasses the master,” he faked a bow, straightening up. His smile faded when he caught sight of Castiel sauntering up to them, having grabbed his robe.

He shrugged it on, coming a stop in front of them and tucking his blade into his side. Dean saw that his caduceus hung from one hip and the sword from the other. He he licked his lips, taking in the sweat dripping down that tanned, muscled skin - _Castiel’s chest,_ he noticed, _was well-defined,_ a fine trail of hair leading down to his navel and below that, hidden neatly by the trousers he wore.  Throat going dry, the Dorcha forced himself to look away, reminding himself that this was the Viridian High Paladin; he sure as hell wasn’t gonna give _Dean_ the time of his day.

“Hello,” he said with that rough, whiskey-soaked voice of his, and Dean bit his lip. He needed to get over this crush, like, fucking yesterday.

“Your Grace,” he greeted coolly, ignoring Benny’s look of confusion - he’d know soon enough that Castiel was a paladin, at least. If his caduceus hanging at his side hadn’t already given it away, his work and spellcasting with Eileen surely would. And paladins were almost always lords - it wasn’t a big leap for Dean to call him that. In fact, it was expected; he didn't wanna end up insulting a Viridian lord and condemning his people even more, did he?

And he’d keep telling himself that till he believed it; it wasn’t like he was doing it to see the way Castiel’s eyes darkened at the name.

_Moon’s cycles, they were so pretty._

Ignoring the thought, he turned to Castiel, who’d tied his robes up and was looking at him expectantly.

“Would you like to, uh,” he cleared his throat, loosening his grip on the coffee mug, “head in to Eileen’s lab?”

Castiel tilted his head, nodding lightly. “Um…” he waved about awkwardly, “I’m a little hungry… would there be food available somewhere?”

 _He should not find that embarrassment cute,_ Dean told himself sternly. “Oh, right,” he said, moving the mug from one hand to the other, noting that his hands were pink from the heat now.

“Why don't we grab some breakfast at Ellen’s and then I’ll drop you off at Eileen’s?” Dean asked, gesturing towards the castle.

“What of my mission?” Castiel’s dark brows drew together on his forehead in a scowl. “While I am happy to offer my assistance to you in any way I can, I cannot forget why I’m here-”

“We’ll talk over breakfast,” he told him, “I told’ja I was gonna help, and I will, but it ain't that easy.”

“You keep saying that,” there was a tenseness to Castiel’s voice that wasn’t there yesterday and Dean pursed his lips as he led them down to the kitchens.

“But what do you require?” he continued in a frustrated manner.

“What, you thought I wave my blade about and summon the dead?” Dean snapped back irritatedly. “It’s not that easy, I told you.”

He leveled the paladin with a sharp look. “And you said there were things you’d discuss only with the necromancer doing this for you - when, what, where, why and how?” he was snarking and he knew it, but by the Goddess, the way Castiel’s eyes flashed was just breathtaking.

“Until you gimme all the details,” he forged on, “I can't help you, sunshine.”

Silence fell over them and Dean didn't push, as Castiel chewed on his bottom lip, considering it. His scowl remained, dark hair falling over his face, and for just a moment, Dean allowed himself to look, sneaking a glances at him.

They entered the kitchen shoulder-to-shoulder and Ellen waved at them, pointing at the empty table close to the corner. The kitchens were almost empty, given how close to midday they actually were, and Castiel sighed, offering Ellen a quick bow before he seated himself where she pointed.

“Why’s the dining hall…?” he let the question linger. Dean shrugged as Ellen headed their way with two plates of bread in her hand.

“Here ya go, fellas,” she set them on the table in front of them. Castiel smiled and thanked her politely, and she patted his back, raising an eyebrow at Dean.

“Learn some manners from this one, kid,” she smirked and he rolled his eyes.

“ _Thank_ you, Ellen,” he snarked back and she cuffed his shoulder affectionately before heading back to her station.

“We don't use the dining hall regularly,” he answered. “Mostly on patrol days when we all come back together, and if there’s a guest, we go there.”

The statement shimmered between them, awaiting acknowledgement - yesterday had seen only Dean and Sam on a random patrol, not a scheduled one. Which meant that the feast had been for _Castiel_ , even if he hadn’t been fully aware of it.

Castiel bit into the bread, chewing on it slowly, his expression thoughtful. Finally, he swallowed and pulled out his caduceus, placing it on the table between them.

“With your permission?” he asked softly.

Dean looked down at it curiously. He hadn’t seen many of these in his life; if he remembered right, while they all had the same design, they also tended to be personalized to suit their owners. This particular one was slim - slimmer than anything he’d seen - angular, like Cas’s blade, and the bulbous end of it was imprinted with Viridia’s insignia, something that he hadn’t seen previously.

 _But then,_ he supposed, _the High Paladin needed something to prove his origins._ He swallowed the sudden reminder, taking in the way the tails of the snakes curved around one another, their faces close enough to touch, but instead snarling at one another. The wings looked familiar, and with a start, Dean realized that they were the same design as the tattoos on Castiel’s back, which had clearly been modeled after this one.

Throat tightening for an entirely different reason, he nodded slightly, giving Castiel the permission he sought.

He watched in fascination as the paladin took the caduceus back, wielding it as confidently as Dean himself held the First Blade. He traced out a sigil with the sharp end of it, the wood creaking as the shape came into being, glowing an off-white blue before vanishing.

_Privacy._

Well, at least the sigils they used were the same.

Dean winced as the Mark pulsed once, a sudden tang of pain that had him starting in surprise. His magic was buzzing in response to Castiel’s, which was calling, which was fucking seductive -

By the Goddess, what would it feel for him to let loose? For him to grab Cas, smash their lips together and strip him naked, their magics intertwining?

Life and Death - _together…_

Closing his eyes against the image, he grit his teeth, internally cursing. _Shut the fuck up,_ he snarled mentally at the Mark, which pulsed again, as if grumbling in response, before subsiding. He got the impression of a grumble and he rolled his eyes, pressing down on his hand before turning back to Castiel who was watching him with an expression of confusion.

“Dean?” he asked, and the Dorcha shook his head, smiling sheepishly.

“It’s nothin’,” he said shortly. “Now that we’ve,” he waved around, “got privacy, wanna talk?”

Castiel frowned, “You recognize the sigil?” he asked.

“No need to sound so surprised,” Dean retorted. “We use sigils too - only difference is that our magic works only with blood - without it, the spells here would be useless.”

“Because this a place of Death, you need to use your own Life force for it work,” Castiel said slowly. Dean’s eyes narrowed at him.

“How do you figure?” he said sharply.

“Because we each give a drop of our blood when our caduceus is crafted,” Castiel said simply. “It’s how we recognize our own from others,” he smiled at Dean, “We don’t use blood as directly as you, perhaps, but we do use it.”

“Huh,” Dean said, “didn't know that.”

Castiel shrugged, “Most people don’t. Blood magic is considered taboo in Viridia, so it’s not used often - and when it is used, it’s monitored extremely carefully.”

“By _you_?” Dean’s voice was more biting than he wanted it to be but he couldn't help it - the use of blood-magic was one of the major prejudices that Viridians had against the Fallen and it grated on his nerves.

By the Goddess, how was it anyone _else’s_ business if he couldn't cut into his own body to perform magic? Did he not have even that much autonomy over himself?

Castiel nodded, refusing to look away.

“You know how powerful it is,” he said softly. “If someone were to make use of another’s blood without their consent…” he trailed off and Dean looked down, ashamed. Because, yeah, that was a thing - a spell could be tied to a person if their blood was used. It was why Lucifer was considered Fallen, why he turned dark.

It wasn’t blood-magic itself that was evil; it was the use of it. Lucifer had _stolen_ blood, used it _without_ people’s consent, raised the dead instead of honoring them… that was why he went dark.

And Castiel seemed to understand that instinctively - most Viridians Dean had met didn't.

Fuck, he was _so_ screwed.

“Well,” he said gruffly. “I geddit. Now…” he raised an eyebrow, “Care to explain what you really need?”

“I-uh…” Castiel floundered, not expecting such a direct question and Dean grinned, waiting patiently.

“As I said,” he cleared his throat, leaning forward, “I need to speak to Samandriel. He’s… he _was_ my apprentice.”

Sympathy lit Dean’s gut as he watched an expression of genuine sorrow flash across the paladin’s face before he schooled into his usual impassiveness.

“When did he die?” he asked quietly.

“About… four days ago?” he sounded like he was questioning himself, startled at how much time had apparently passed.

“By the Lord,” he mumbled. “It’s been _four_ days.”

Grief twisted his voice into something hoarse and broken, and Dean reached across the table to squeeze his hand gently. Castiel looked up, startled, and the Dorcha was almost surprised to see unshed tears filling them.

“It’s okay,” he said kindly.

Castiel swallowed, rubbing his eyes quickly and visibly steeling himself visibly.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

Dean shook his head. “Goddess’s skirts, man,” he said, “have you even grieved him?”

“I don't have the time to,” he snapped back. “Charlie is…” he broke off, looking back down at his caduceus, grip tightening. Dean waited impatiently, unable to say anything, knowing instinctively that this was something he needed to work through on his own.

“Charlie sent him on a mission,” he said finally, in a low voice. “One that I was not aware of. If I had…” he trailed off, clenching his fists.

“Cas?”

His shoulders straightened and he swallowed, continuing in a determined voice. “Samandriel was supposed to collect information on…” he hesitated, shooting Dean an inscrutable look, and the Dorcha met his gaze without flinching.

“You can trust me,” he said quietly, answering the unasked question.

Castiel barked out a quick laugh, dark and bitter and Dean frowned at the sound of it.

“Can I, though?” he asked sourly. “You’re the _Dorcha_ of the Witherlands - you’re literally everything I’ve ever been warned against my entire life. So tell me, Dean, _why_ should I trust _you_?”

Fuck, but those eyes… they blazed an angry, vicious blue, and what the hell was wrong with him? Because all Dean wanted to do was reach across the table and yank him close, strip him naked and fuck him senseless until they were both sated and spent.

“Because,” he snapped back, “you kinda don't have a choice, _Your Grace_.” He sneered the last bit and Castiel pulled back, looking away.

Silence fell between them.

“Look,” Dean cleared his throat, the first to break it. “I can't help you if you don't trust me. And like you said yesterday… we need to be mutually beneficial to one another.?”

Castiel sighed, deflating before him, and reached up to rub the wetness out of his eyes.

“I suppose,” he muttered. “It’s just…” he hesitated, and then blurted out, “You’re the Dorcha - you’re descended from _Lucifer_ himself.”

Dean frowned. “And that’s news to you?” he asked harshly. “The Fallen are all descended from Lucifer and those who left with him. Isn't that common knowledge or whatever?”

Castiel stared at him as if he was an idiot.

“You’re Charlie’s cousin,” he said stiffly.

Realization struck flashed like lightning and Dean snickered, rolling his eyes. “You think I want to go after your girlfriend’s throne?” he hissed, “Really, Cas?”

Castiel scowled, glaring at him. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he snapped, “And it’s my job to scout potential dangers to the Crown, Dean. You should show me some respect - I can hurt you.”

“Is that a threat?” Dean smirked back, refusing to admit how his stomach jumped at the ‘ _not my girlfriend_ ’ comment. “Look, hotshot - I need info if I’m speaking to the dead. You’re just gonna have to trust me.” He waved about the room, saying, “I promise I’m not after your throne - I just want my people to get through the winter safely and maybe work out some kinda long-term plan for ‘em.”

For a long, silent moment, Castiel regarded him, that hot blue gaze of his appraising and speculative. Dean didn't look away, matching him breath for breath, until, abruptly, the paladin sighed and nodded.

“I can't tell you everything,” he warned, “but the short of it is…” he looked down at his caduceus and traced the edge of it carefully, “Charlie has been imprisoned,” his voice was almost a whisper.

“The fuck?” Dean yelped and Castiel looked up quickly, glaring, gesturing to the others still in the room. The sigil kept their conversation private but did not render them invisible, and Dean shrugged sheepishly, sitting back down though he remained tense.

The heir to the fucking throne - Queen Gertrude’s daughter… _in prison?_

By the Goddess, how was that even _possible_?

“Charlie sent Samandriel on a mission to gather intelligence,” the paladin explained. “He sent her a message saying that he had found something important for her to know, but before he could get the information to us, he was killed.”

Castiel’s voice turned tired again, “I found him just before…” he twiddled his thumbs and Dean watched in fascination as they pressed down against one another, “I confronted Charlie, but before we could get far…” he closed his eyes, “The Regent declared her a traitor to the Crown and had her arrested.”

“And how do you she isn't?” Dean asked. “She used your apprentice, without tellin’ ya. How can you be sure that she’s not a traitor?”

Castiel’s eyes flew open, angry and blazing. “Because,” he snarled, “I _know_ her.”

Dean snorted, “Clearly.”

He didn't point out that she hadn’t trusted him with the mission and had gone behind his back.

“If it was your brother, _Dorcha_ ,” Castiel growled, “would you question his loyalty? To the Witherlands or to you?”

Dean fell silent at that - no matter what happened, Dean wouldn’t question Sammy’s loyalty, he knew. And he knew it from experience; even at the height of it, Sam had returned, leaving behind a happy life with Jess at the University.

He might not be happy with Sam’s choices, but he didn't question his loyalty - he depended on it.

So he swallowed and lowered his head in shame, accepting Castiel’s statement.

“No,” he said quietly, “I wouldn't.”

Castiel nodded. “I thought so,” he said sharply. “Charlie is…” he hesitated, breathing in deeply, “Charlie is one of the most dedicated women I know. She loves her people, knows her duty. She would never turn on her own - the Regent is mistaken. And I must prove him wrong.”

“If you can't get Charlie out…” Dean felt compelled to ask - much as he admired Cas’s courage and dedication to his Crown, Dean’s duty was to his people. “If you can't get the borders open… our deal falls apart.”

Castiel looked at him for a long moment, considering it, and then nodded.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “I will not be able to uphold my end of the bargain. If that happens…” he swallowed, and then continued, “If that happens,” he repeated, “I shall return. And I shall offer Eileen the full use of my magic to ensure that you can grow grain enough grain to feed your people.”

Dean met his eyes steadily - his heart was hammering in his chest, taken aback by the sheer determination he saw in those eyes.

Cas was offering him his entire life in exchange for this - he was ready to sign everything away; if he were to leave Viridia, he would lose his power, his position, and would almost certainly be banished for abandoning his post.

Whoever this Charlie was, she was fucking important to him, for Cas to even consider making such a drastic choice.

“Very well then,” he found himself saying slowly. “I accept your offer.”

Castiel tilted his head in acquiescence. “So what now?” he asked stated, throwing the last of the his bread into his mouth and chewing slowly.

“I need something of Samandriel’s,” Dean told him, sipping the last of his own coffee. It had gone cold by now, and he frowned at it, making a face before continuing. “I’mma be summoning his spirit, for you to speak to him.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed in irritation, “What exactly of his do you need?”

Dean shrugged, “Somethin’ from his body?” he answered, “Like… a lock of hair, a fingernail? Anything that’s connected to his blood, so I can name him and summon his spirit.”

“You need his _blood_?” the paladin looked aghast, “I didn't… I don't…”

“Dude, how else do you think I summon particular spirits?” Dean asked incredulously. “Reaching through the Veil to ask for specific souls ain't an easy job, I need to narrow it down as much as possible.”

Castiel’s expression was troubled and he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. Dean watched as he frowned, massaging the bridge of his temple before nodding and turning back to the Dorcha.

“Would…” he cleared his throat, “Would his caduceus do? As I mentioned, his blood was used in making it, so it carries a mark of his soul, I suppose.”

Dean nodded, “That should work, yeah,” he replied. “In fact, an object that he used so well would be perfect - I’m guessing you guys never go anywhere without it?”

Castiel shook his head, “No,” he agreed, “We don't. It’s our greatest weapon; without it, we are weakened.”

“Alright then,” Dean slapped his hands, rubbing his palms together. “You gimme his caduceus and I’ll do the rest.”

“I’ll need to send a message,” Castiel said. He picked up his caduceus again and gently traced over the table, dissolving the privacy spell he’d cast and Dean’s magic jumped again, buzzing in response as the forcefield disappeared.

“To?” he asked.

Castiel hesitated and then shrugged. “A friend,” he said evasively, “he can bring Samandriel’s caduceus to me.”

Dean didn't push - he may have signed himself over to the Witherlands, but Castiel was still the High Paladin, and Dean doubted that even resigning from the post would lead him to betray State secrets.

“Okay then,” he stood up, picking up his empty plates and dropping it in heading over to the sink to drop it off. Castiel followed suit and they left the kitchens soon after, heading down the hall towards Eileen’s lab.

“I think it would take about two to -three days for my friend to bring the caduceus here,” Castiel said. “Up until then, I shall assist Miss Eileen with your grain problem.”

“Works for me,” Dean said nodded, leading him down the stairs. He hesitated, and then asked, “Hey, Cas?”

“Hmmm?”

“Would you…” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Fuck, why was this so _hard_?

“Dean?” Castiel looked at him questioningly, blinking and Dean felt his pants tighten. By the Goddess, how could a person be so powerful one moment and so naively innocent the next?

“D’you wanna spar wimme?” he blurted out, wincing as soon as he said it.

Son of the Goddess… he’d wanted to get Cas into the arena from the moment he’d seen him fight this morning.

If he couldn't have Cas writhing beneath him in bed, then he wanted to take him apart in the training field, piece by piece - see what made him tick, challenge him, and fight him.

Breathing in deeply, Dean looked up with a wince, expecting Castiel to glare at him or roll his eyes. Instead, he found the paladin watching him with an expression that was strangely fond, a soft smirk on his own face.

“You think you could take me in a fight, Dorcha?” he teased and Dean blinked, a slow smirk snigger growing on his own face.

“We won't know if we don't try,” he answered, “Your Grace.”

A short bark of laughter left his lips and Dean’s stomach swooped at the sound of it - fuck, but why did Castiel sound so _good_ all the damned time?

“Well then,” he answered, his eyes twinkling, “I accept your challenge. Today, evening at the arena?”

Dean nodded happily, coming to a stop in front of Eileen’s lab. He pulled on the string hanging in front of the door, knowing that the lab was flashing up inside to indicate visitors, and waited for her call.

“Since she can’t hear a knock,” he explained to a confused Castiel, whose expression cleared and turned impressed.

“Come in!” the expected yell came and the door swung open of its own accord. Dean stepped back, gesturing for Cas to enter.

“Arena at dusk,” he told the paladin. “Don't be late.”

Castiel smirked back at him.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He turned around and walked in, disappearing into Eileen’s lab, and Dean could hear their voices all the way down the hall as he walked away.

 _So am I,_ he thought, grinning widely. _So am I._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit/Update 28th July - [iouii](http://iouii.tumblr.com/) has made more art that I've embedded in the fic, show her some love!

**Chapter 6**

Eileen Leahy was smart.

It took Castiel all of twenty minutes in her presence to come to that conclusion; he’d already had an inkling of it back at the Council Meet when she’d unveiled her experiments and ideas. But moving into her lab and working with her made him realize that she was a quiet genius, who was as sensitive as she was smart.

She welcomed him with a smile that was more open than any of the other Fallen he’d met since he’d arrived and hadn’t hesitated to jump into conversation with him instantly. His sign language was a little rusty, but he was only happy to practice again with her.  

_So how’s the Witherlands treating you?_ she asked and Castiel offered her a quick shrug.

_It’s… cold,_ he admitted.

Eileen chuckled, rolling her shoulders back as she pulled out a test -tube. Her lab, Castiel had noticed as soon as he walked in, was warm and cheerful; the walls were painted a soft yellow and green and the windows were left open, allowing what sunlight there was to stream into the lab. A few sketches were also hung here and there and Castiel walked closer to observe the drawings, startled to realize that she had drawn them herself.

_You draw?_ he asked.

She nodded. “Childhood habit,” she answered, “My uh… mom, she taught me.”

There was a hint of something sad in her voice and Castiel’s heart went out to her. _They’re beautiful,_ he told her, _you’re very talented._

_Thank you_ , she smiled prettily, “Your Grace.”

Castiel whirled around in surprise and he noted absently the way Eileen’s smile was both guarded and cheeky.

“Wh-what?” he stammered. “I’m not-”

Eileen rolled her eyes, pulling out a test tube holder and setting the tube she was holding in her hand into carefully. Bending down, she opened the cabinet and yanked out a bottle, opening it. Magic buzzed beneath Castiel’s skin and his eyes widened when he understood what it was - more of the precious Life they’d pulled from the colony of ants to grow grain.

“I’m not stupid,” she retorted. “You carry a caduceus.”

She met his gaze without flinching, shrugging at his questioning look. _And your things are very fine, not to mention no normal sorcerer would ever be able to wield a blade as well as you do._

“I watched you this morning with Benny,” she added out loud and Castiel huffed, sighing.

“I should’ve known better than to draw attention to myself,” he said ruefully. Eyeing her carefully, he smiled, signing, _You're very smart, Milady._

Eileen grinned. _I know,_ she said cheekily. _That’s why I’m in charge of this,_ she waved her hand around the lab, _whole place._

“Well,” Castiel bowed, _how can I be of use?_

She nodded her head towards the test tube. _Take a look at that?_ she requested, _and talk to me about the greenhouses?_

Feeling excitement churn in his gut, Castiel did as she asked, brows drawing together in a deep, thoughtful frown as he took in the results of all her work so far. The idea itself was ingenious, he had to admit, even if he abhorred the idea of drawing Life from another creature. His own powers were humming at his fingertips and his grip on his caduceus tightened as he breathed in deeply, trying to calm the sudden drop of his stomach.

An entire colony of ants had _died_ to do this - they’d given their life for this. Or rather, they’d been slain so the Fallen could survive the upcoming winter.

Castiel didn’t blame them or condemn them for their choices, but he had to admit that it bordered too close to what Lucifer did for his comfort, treading the lines between light and dark magic.

_You’re troubled,_ Eileen stated when he straightened up to face her.

He didn't bother to deny it, offering her a quiet nod. He regretted his acquiescence immediately for her expression - so far open and warm - closed down quickly, and she pursed her lips, eyeing him with the same suspicion everyone else had.

_The magic too dark for you?_

_A sneer really didn't suit her face,_ Castiel decided quickly. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose - to be quite honest, he was still reeling from the realization that Dean could demand Charlie’s throne, the match with Benny, and then Dorcha’s reassurance that he couldn’t care less about the throne of Viridia.

He was lost; the calm he always carried around as the High Paladin was slowly slipping away from and Castiel was terrified that he was going to have to give up everything he knew, everything that was familiar.

_It’s not dark,_ he said seriously, meeting her dark expression openly without flinching. “But you _are_ killing the surroundings to ensure your own survival,” he pointed out.

“How is this any different from when you go hunting?” she snapped. _Or when we eat meat?_

“We don’t slay entire colonies to conduct an _experiment_ ,” he retorted. “We don't cause unnecessary suffering when we can prevent-”

“Like _your_ Regent could’ve prevented _our_ suffering?” she challenged. Castiel fell silent, looking away, and for a long moment, there was nothing but uncomfortable quiet, both of them approaching one another from vastly different points of view.

_I’m sorry,_ Castiel finally signed. Because Eileen was right - if the Fallen had had to retort to such desperate measures, it was Joshua and Marv’s fault. They were only doing what they had to to survive.

“I’ve _tried_ ,” Eileen’s voice suddenly shook and he looked up again to see her biting her lip, her eyes suspiciously bright. “I’ve tried everything I can to grow grain, to help our crops survive the winters. But…”

_This was my last resort,_ she finished weakly. _I understand the cost of this - believe me._

Her expression darkened with grief and she looked down at the bottle, glowing softly with the Life of the thousands of insects she’d taken.

_I know,_ she repeated slowly. _Life, whether animal or man’s…_ she met his eyes, sighing softly, _life is precious. We of the Fallen know that better than most - we honor the dead. Which is why…_ Her hands - so far shaking from the sorrow she’d been hiding all this while - curled into clenched fists, her movements turning fiercely determined.

“I won't let these deaths be have been in vain,” she said. “An entire colony of ants died to give me this Life - I won't waste it. I will honor them by ensuring that this works.”

Castiel felt a spark of admiration alight in his chest and he tilted his head in acquiescence. The Fallen, he was coming to discover, were a hardy people, filled with passion - their beliefs were different, certainly, but they weren’t lax in their love. They _understood_ death, honored it as part of Life; it wasn’t something a person without heart did.

If anything, they had more heart than any Viridian the paladin had met before.

So, he breathed in deeply, forcing himself to find his calm centre and nodded again, allowing the corners of his lips to turn up in an unsure but quiet smile.

_Well, then,_ he said, _I’m only too glad to help._

The warmth from earlier returned to Eileen’s face as she opened her hands out for him to take. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

_Shall we?_ he gestured to the work set-up and she nodded.

They worked side-by-side for the next few hours, trying to figure out a way to get the Life drawn to be sustainable. Eileen shared his opinion about the feasibility of the plan and so they set about trying to predict numbers in order to figure out how their current environment could sustain it.

It didn’t look good. One colony had given them one bottle that they could use but Castiel wasn’t so certain about the entire acre that Eileen estimated they’d be able to grow. They hadn’t even experimented to see if the magic they’d pulled was useable - power was finicky at best, and didn’t always work the way you expected it to.

Which was why the first thing Eileen wanted to do was to try and grow a single crop using the magic they’d collected. Castiel was planted the seed she handed him carefully, pulling out his caduceus to cast the spell. He was about to trace the sigil for _growth_ into the wooden table next to him when she placed her hand on his and shook her head.

_What is it?_ he frowned.

_Your magic is that of Life,_ she pointed out, _if you cast the spell, we won’t know if it’s because of you or the magic,_ she gestured towards the bottled magic _._ Castiel sighed, tilting his head in acknowledgment and stepped back.

“I’ll work out the numbers further,” he offered, “if you will…” he waved his hand about and she smiled in agreement.

Castiel was about to move further back, down the table, when he saw her pull out a blade hanging at her hip from the corner of his eyes. He turned around, carefully watching as she drew the dagger from out of its sheath - it was a beautiful weapon, made entirely of solid gold and glinting in the sunlight.

Eileen noticed him watching and met his gaze unflinchingly, turning the dagger around in her hand until the tip was pressed into the tip of her index finger. She hissed as it cut through her skin, the blood flowing out easily and she sighed, placing the dagger on the table.

“My, uh-” she cleared her throat, “My mother gave this to me.” She smiled wanly, “She died about two years ago.”

There was no accusation in her tone, but to Castiel it still felt like one - whoever this mom was, who’d taught her to draw, she’d been a part of those who’d lost their lives to the Witherlands and Viridian prejudice.

Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, the paladin simply nodded in acknowledgement, unable to say anything. She sighed and then traced out the sigil on the pot they’d thrown the seed into, going back to her experiment.

For the next few hours, they worked this way - Castiel running numbers and predictions while Eileen tried casting the spell again and again. They tried different permutations and combinations of sigils, but at most, all they could do was get the seed to bloom into a small, twisted version of anything Castiel had seen in Viridia.

It was like all in the Witherlands were a paltry reflection of what existed in his home; Castiel sighed, discouraged, but Eileen’s grin  only widened in excitement.

_We’re getting somewhere!_ she clapped. Castiel stood back in surprise at her enthusiasm and optimism and opened his mouth to protest when she stumbled, her eyes rolling up into her head.

“Eileen!”

He reached out, catching her just before she fell, but the combined weight sent them both tumbling to the ground, Eileen landing on him with a loud oomph.

“Hey babe, time for lu- _Eileen!”_

Castiel looked up to see Sam Winchester racing into the room, bending down to quickly grab Eileen away from the paladin. He cradled her small form in his arms, brows furrowing to scowling at Castiel angrily, expression suspicious.

“What’s goin’ on?” he demanded, consciously pulling away from Castiel, who moved back. His heart constricted at how closed off the younger Winchester looked, at how much suspicion there was on his face, and with a start, he realized that he was getting _fond_ of these people.

He banished the thought - he was here for Charlie, he could not get attached to the Fallen. He was the High Paladin, by the Sun!

“What’d you do to her?” Sam snapped, “Eileen, Eilee-”

“Worrywart,” she murmured, pushing him back slowly. Breathing in deeply, she grabbed the lapels of his shirt and pulled herself up carefully, facing Castiel. For the first time, the paladin took note of how pale she looked and or how sunken her eyes were; guilt crept in when he realized how he’d missed all of it.

“You expended too much strength,” he stated quietly. “Eileen, you shouldn’t-”

She shrugged, turning to Sam, who was still glaring at Castiel suspiciously. Rolling her eyes, she reached up to grab his cheek, forcing him to look down at her, offering him a small shake her of her head.

Her hand dropped to chest-level as she signed, _Not his fault. I used too much magic in at one go._

Sam’s eyes narrowed at her and he pursed his lips, signing back easily. _You need to be careful._

His hands were shaking, Castiel was startled to realize, and he watched as Eileen’s expression softened and she stood on tiptoes to kiss him.

He looked away as Sam’s arms encircled her waist, pulling her in close, feeling slightly awkward, busying himself with righting the papers that had flown off the table when she’d collapsed.

“I’m fine, Sam,” he heard her say in a quiet voice.  For a long moment, there was silence - they were signing _,_ Castiel supposed - before she called to him, loud and clear.

“Your Grace?”

Castiel turned around to face them. “Cas,” he insisted and Eileen smiled from where she was still wrapped up in Sam’s arms, nodding.

“Cas,” she agreed, “Sorry about this lump…” she poked Sam with her elbow and the younger Winchester _oomphed_ , rolling his eyes, though his expression did turn sheepish.

“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “Sorry. I saw her on the floor, with you on top… and I just… I panicked.”

“It’s alright, Sam,” Castiel said, “I can understand.”

Eileen looked up at Sam, raising a dark eyebrow. “So why’re you here?” she asked.

“It’s lunch time,” he answered, “Did you two even notice?”

Castiel blinked, suddenly realizing how hungry he was as he looked out the window. The sun was high in the sky, he noticed, wincing at how much time had passed since he’d come into the lab.

“Well,” Eileen shrugged, “we were a bit busy.”

Her eyes twinkled as Sam snorted affectionately, drawing her close. _You need to take care of yourself better,_ he signed and Eileen grinned sheepishly in response.

“So, how’s it goin’?” Sam waved a hand about the lab, brows drawing back together in a slight frown.

Castiel sighed frustratedly, running a hand through his dark hair. The beginnings of a migraine made itself known to him, his temples aching lightly, and he wished he’d thought to bring his glasses with him from his room before he’d starting messing about with the experiment.

_It’s…_ Eileen paused, and then shrugged, _it’s going._

Sam looked between Castiel and his girlfriend, and then sighed, nodding. “I see,” he said. “Sorry I haven’t been able to help, Dean wanted me fortifying the castle protections today.”

He looked up at Castiel. “I usually split my time between the lab and the library,” he offered.

“And you’re a soldier as well?” Castiel asked; it was surprising, really, how many roles they all seemed to take on. Dean was the Dorcha _and_ the ruling Lord, Ellen was both in charge of the kitchens, _and_ the castle’s head staff, _and_ a Council Member.

Sam nodded, wrapping his arm around Eileen’s small shoulders and nodding towards the open door. Castiel picked up his caduceus and blade, following the couple out of the lab.

“We don't have many people around,” he shrugged as they walked down the winding pathway, Sam ducking through the archway that led to the kitchens. “So we all do what we can to help.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Sam and Eileen signing quietly to one another, Castiel too lost in thought to pay them much attention. _It was true,_ he realized, the Fallen had no one to depend on but one another - the bonds he’d seen between these people, in just the short while he’d been here… it was strong.

Dean said he needed something of Samandriel’s to call to him - honestly, Castiel had no idea how he was to face his apprentice. He’d failed him, had failed to protect him, and if Alfie had taken to dark magic, that _was_ on Castiel as well, because _he_ hadn’t taught him what was right.

But then… he was beginning to wonder - had Castiel himself been taught what was right?

Reflecting darkly that he really had no choice but to trust them, he sighed, and called softly to the younger Winchester.

“Sam?”

The couple in front of him came to a stop and Sam turned around with a questioning expression on his face.

“Yes?”

“I…” Castiel hesitated, and then continued, “I need to send a message back to Viridia.”

Sam’s brow furrowed and his features turned thoughtful as he stared back at Castiel. “For?” he asked cautiously. “The borders are closed, sending a message across-”

“Would be difficult, I know,” Castiel interrupted. “But if I was able to cross through undetected and get here, sending a message shouldn't be too hard…?” he trailed off. Memories of the past week swam before his eyes, and he closed his eyes against the picture of Charlie that the wisps had taunted him with in an attempt to drown him.

It hadn’t been entirely easy, he had to admit, sneaking across the borders. There were patrols set up regularly at the edge of Viridia to ensure the people couldn’t leave without the government knowing about it, and once you left Viridian landscape, you had to ride through leagues of wilderness before you’d see the Witherlands.

It was, in short, a hard journey - one that he’d barely survived himself, lost to the cold and then to the magic of the wisps who lured him in with a false sense of security.

And he was going to ask Balthazar to take it with little to no explanation.

Castiel breathed in deeply, pushing away the sharp spike of guilt that had been building up since the moment he’d told Dean he’d send for Alfie’s caduceus. But as he’d thought just now…

_What other choice did he have?_

Charlie was imprisoned. Already, a week had passed. It would take Castiel another four days - at the least - to get to Viridia. He was banned from the castle, and even if he did somehow managed to sneak in, it would take him another four days to return to Dean’s home. He didn't _have_ that kind of time; he couldn't take that kind of a risk with Charlie’s life. He had no idea what Marv had planned for the princess, but he needed to get back as soon as possible.

“I need to send an urgent message,” he repeated. “Please, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes were, hazel and burning with curiosity, met his, probing at him unashamedly. Castiel didn’t look away, meeting his gaze steadily, and it was the younger Winchester who blinked, sighing and then offering him a nod.

“After lunch,” he said. “Dean said you’re gonna be meeting him for a sparring match this evening?”

“That’s right,” he nodded.

“I’ll see you guys there,” Sam said. “Bring your scroll - make it short and small.”

Before Castiel could answer in the affirmative, he’d turned around and walked into the kitchens after his girlfriend. The paladin sighed and followed, wondering bemusedly if he’d ever truly understand these people.

It was, if nothing else, worth a try.

*-*-*

The sun was a thin ring of yellow on the horizon by the time Dean walked into the arena that evening. Even in the peak of summer, dusk happened far too early for the Dorcha’s liking. Sighing, he headed to where Benny was yelling at a bunch of novices to get their act together. He chuckled as one kid fell over himself in his hurry to collect his things - his best friend could be terrifying when he set his mind to it.

“Hoy, Chief!” the guard raised an arm in greeting and Dean waved back, ignoring his inquisitive look as he twisted his head this way and that in search of a mop of dark hair.

_Castiel was nowhere to be seen,_ he noted with, disappointment swooping low in his belly. Damn, but this was what had kept him going the whole day as he slogged through the paperwork. Dean loved his job and his people, he did, he just did not enjoy the documentation that came with it. And with the upcoming Lunar Féile, Ellen was pushing him to get the preparations in order by the end of the week.

Goddamn it, but he needed some time off. Closing his eyes, he decided that he’d do a quick warm-up while he waited for the paladin to show up. He hadn’t even seen him at lunch, because he’d gotten Ellen to send it straight to his office, and she’d let him know that Eileen seemed to have taken Cas under her wing. Which, Dean had to admit, was a definite relief - she was on the very short list of people whose judgement he trusted without reservation.

If she liked Cas, then Dean could too - not that he already didn't. In fact, the Dorcha liked him _too_ much.

Growling at his own thoughts, he stripped down to nothing but his simplest layers, wearing just his tunic and trousers, the First Blade strapped to his side, encased in its hard, leather sheath as usual. He ignored the attention he was receiving from the new recruits; it wasn’t often they got to see the Dorcha himself or the fabled Blade, after all. No one except him could wield it, of course, but just seeing it was a treat for most kids.

Squatting, he stretched out his leg, rolling his shoulders. He went through his basic warm-up exercises, watching the sun set fully. About an hour passed, during which Dean headed to the punching bag, releasing the throwing out his day’s restless energy and frustrations against the hard material. His excitement faded steadily, even as sweat beaded his forehead from the exertion, until he was finally forced to admit - Castiel wasn’t gonna show.

Disappointment rolled heavy in his gut and he punched the bag again, this time with more force than he intended. His knuckles were probably bruised, but what the heck ever - the hurt felt good, because it was something he could control.

Unlike his goddamn feelings for the fucking paladin.

_How had Cas managed to get under his skin so quickly?_

“You’re likely to tear that bag apart.”

The rough voice had Dean whirling around instinctively, punching at whoever had dared to sneak up behind him.

Benny would’ve ducked and then disarmed him - Castiel did neither, catching his fist instead, holding it captive within his own palm. Dean blinked, shocked, until cool blue eyes, framed by circular, golden rims  - _fuck, were those glasses?_ \- met his own burning gaze and he realized where they were standing.

Castiel was _here._

And he was a goddamned badass, because he’d blocked Dean’s punch like it was nothing. He knew his right-hook was lethal, had taken out more than one opponent that way, but Castiel hadn't even flinched.

His breath shortened and he offered  the paladin a smirk, raising his eyebrow teasingly.

“You’re late,” he hissed.

Castiel smiled sheepishly, dropping his hand, and Dean pulled it back, stepping away from the punching bag.

“I apologize,” he said softly. “Miss Eileen and I lost track of time trying to ensure that the experiment worked. And then I had to pass a message on to Sam so he could forward it to Viridia, so…”

Dean frowned. “The message you wanted to send this morning?” he asked. Castiel nodded, sighing softly, raising his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. The Dorcha’s eyes followed the movement closely; _fuck_ , but those glasses looked entirely too good on the paladin’s face.

Where the hell had they been all this time?

_What would Castiel look like wearing only that and absolutely nothing else?_

Banishing the thought, Dean raised his hands in challengingly, smirking at him. Castiel stepped back, watching with furrowed brows.

“I believe you owe me a fight,” he taunted.

Castiel’s smile widened and he tilted his head to the side. His hands pulled at his glasses, picking them off, and _god_ , that should not be as arousing as it was. Dean watched as he dropped them into the bag he was still carrying, shedding his own clothes. He shivered as the cold evening air hit and Dean’s eyes narrowed in concern - _he_ was used to the chill, but Castiel wasn’t.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Why?” Castiel snarked back, “Are you worried?”

“Just don't want you faintin’ on me during out match,” Dean retorted. “I don't like kicking a man when he’s down.”

“You seem to assume your superior prowess in battle,” Castiel smirked. “But don't forget, Dean-” his blade appeared in one hand and before Dean could say anything else, he was thrusting it in the Dorcha’s face. He threw up his own Blade in an instinctive parry, blocking him with relative ease, and Castiel’s grin widened.

“-that I’m as experienced as you are,” he finished, holding the position. They were face-to-face, standing so close that Dean could feel the heat of Castiel’s hard, unyielding body against his , those blue, blue eyes blazing at him.

Fuck.

_Son of the Moon…_

Dean's heart thundered against his ribcage even as he smirked back, side-stepping the paladin to attack him from the back. Castiel ducked, swiping his leg in a long circle, intending to trip Dean, who jumped into the air gracefully, avoiding him.

There was more space between them now, but the air sparked with tension - Dean wanted to yank him in and smash their lips together, or better yet, throw him against the punching bag and rut until they’d both come in their trousers. He couldn't do that, so he did the next best thing - he rushed forward, spinning the First Blade in his hands and going in for a straight thrust. Castiel parried easily, and they were face to face again.

“You’re good,” the paladin admitted, licking his bottom lip in anticipation. Dean’s eyes were drawn to the way the pink tongue as it poked out, and he felt his own lips curve in an answering smirk.

“Don't sound so surprised,” he growled, pulling back. “I _am_ the Dorcha.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed politely, “And _I_ am the High Paladin.”

He stepped back, ducking Dean’s Blade, and they were off. Castiel matched him thrust for thrust, parry for parry, and with each passing moment, Dean felt the desire pool hot in his veins - no one, not even Sammy, had been able to keep up with him this way. His magic hummed beneath his skin, the Mark pulsing happily on his hand.

And Castiel didn't just keep up; he gave as good as he got. _Better,_ Dean admitted to himself in private, as he ducked another attack, jumping back to avoid another sweeping kick - the man’s blade was an extension of his arm, his entire body a lethal weapon that he wielded gracefully without pause.

He could hear nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears, Castiel’s burning gaze the only thing he was aware of. The sun had long since set, and in the dying twilight, those eyes blazed at him in excitement, both of them panting from the effort.

It was getting harder and harder to see, however, and about twenty minutes later, Dean stumbled, falling to a kick he missed. He rolled over, swiping his own leg against Castiel, who also tripped, stumbling to the ground. He fell against Dean, who caught him quickly, arms banding instinctively about the paladin to break his fall.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled. “If you wanted to get on top of me, Cas, all you had to do was ask.”

Castiel stiffened - every inch of him was pressed against Dean, his breath passing over the Dorcha’s face. Dean felt the beginnings of a groan at the back of his throat; fuck, Castiel felt good in his arms, hard and muscled, his back flexing at Dean’s touch, rubbing shamelessly against him.

“I- I just, I uh-” he stammered, and Dean leaned up, flicking a sweaty strand of hair behind his ear.

By the Goddess, the paladin was _beautiful_ like this.

“I make you speechless, Cas?” he teased. Instinctively, he reached up, palms tracing the paladin’s cheek, his thumb rubbing Castiel’s bottom lip slowly.

Instantly, Castiel pushed him back, jumping off. Dean blinked, startled, his hand dropping to his side as he stared back in shock. And the realization hit him like being doused in the ice cold waters of the Witherland rapids.

He’d almost _kissed_ Castiel.

He’d almost kissed the _High Paladin of Viridia._

Panic seized him, stomach churning with a mix of both shame and arousal, and he opened his mouth to apologize -

Fuck, had he ruined all chances of trade with Viridia because he couldn't keep it in his pants? _Fuck, fuck, fuck -_

“I’m sorry,” Castiel blurted. “It’s getting late, I must go. I shall see you tomorrow.”

Before Dean could respond, the paladin grabbed his bag, turned on his heel foot and fled. And Dean could only watch him go, arousal thrumming hot through his veins at the sight of his disappearing back.

The Mark burned hot against his skin in warning and he slapped his hands against his eyes, groaning loudly.

Goddess help him, he was _so_ screwed.

*-*-*

Castiel ran into his chambers, slamming the door closed. He could hear naught but the pounding of his own heart, his fists clenching as he tried to breathe in deeply. His hands were trembling, sweaty and weak, and he raised them to his face, placing one palm on his chest and the other on his face, feeling the raspiness of his stubble against his fingers.

By the Sun… Dean’s face, his viridescent eyes, greener than the fields of Viridian farms, flashed behind his eyelids, and Castiel groaned, slapping at his hand against his own cheek.

How could he be so stupid?

His trousers were still tight, he realized, mortified at the thought. Angry with his own body, he quickly yanked the borrowed clothes off, throwing them onto the bed and storming into the bathroom.

Dean’s cocky grin, that sinewy body, supple and graceful as it moved against his own… the warmth of his touch against the cold wind that blew constantly in the Witherlands… Those hands, rough and callused with years of training, and yet, still somehow soft as they traced Castiel’s lower lip as he leaned up…

By the blazes, what in the world was wrong with him?

Growling, Castiel headed into the bath, turning the tap to fill the tub with water. _A cold shower would help calm his lust,_ he reasoned. He needed to let this stupid urge go, needed this passion to vanish. He couldn't afford an attraction right now, especially not to Dean WInchester of all people.

Lord above, Dean could fight though.

Castiel hadn’t met many a man who could go toe-to-toe with for him in a straight fight. Sparring with Benny this morning had been good practice, his technique and ability enough to keep Castiel on his toes but not really challenge him.

Dean, however, was a different story altogether.

Not only had the Dorcha challenged Castiel, he had given him a run for his money. The paladin wasn’t sure which one of them would actually win; they were evenly matched. _It would probably come down to stamina,_ Castiel thought, depending on who would get tired faster and make a mistake.

Judging from the way he’d tripped and fallen, it would probably be Castiel himself, he thought wryly, hissing as he stepped into the water, which was as hot as last night. He’d hoped for a cold bath to settle the arousal buzzing below his skin, but it didn’t seem like it was going to happen - he’d have to work out how to get cold instead of hot water later.

He melted into the tub, ignoring the obvious way his cock jutted out, his body still burning with the energy from earlier.

                   

It wasn’t just the way Dean fought or the manner in which he moved - though both these things made for a tempting Dorcha indeed.

It was that Castiel’s magic - his very _essence_ \- buzzed in his presence. His powers leapt, danced beneath his skin, reaching out to Dean’s own magic, Life calling to Death.

It terrified him - it exhilarated him.

How did Dean Winchester do this?

Swallowing a groan, Castiel reached down to run his thumb down the side of his cock, sighing. By the Sun, that felt good - how would Dean touch him? Would he be rough? Or would he submit to Castiel, allow him to box him against the wall and let the paladin arrange him the way he liked?

The bath rattled as his magic began to leak out, reaching, sizzling, calling to its mate -

Those lovely green eyes - the color of Viridian plains in the summer - would go dark with pleasure, Castiel imagined, one hand gripping his cock and the other dragging against his thighs harshly, bleeding lines of red onto his already flushed skin. He moved his thumb to the crown of his cock, picturing Dean on his knees before him, smirking, sinfully.

Water spilled over the side of the tub, flowing onto the floor. Castiel’s skin was buzzing, his skin from the heat and arousal as well as the magic he could no longer hold back.

He flicked a drop of hot water over his cock - behind his eyes, he watched as the Dorcha took him deep into his mouth, the hot wetness of his throat closing around Castiel as he pumped himself, moaning softly.

A moment later, he was coming, hard and hot, spurting white come against his own palms. The tub rattled dangerously, almost tipping over, and he yelped, pulling the magic back, holding it tightly and closing his eyes in irritation.

“Back,” he growled. His caduceus was in the bedroom, he recalled, and jumped out, gritting his teeth against the way his blood pounded, his skin buzzing as his powers flared. Ignoring the water collecting on the bathroom floor, he stomped to the bedroom, still wet.

His bag lay where he’d dropped it in the rush he’d come in with. He grabbed it, yanking his caduceus out. His skin was beginning to burn, the magic protesting his irritation and he hissed, clamping down on it harder than he ever had before.

“You will submit!” he snapped, and then quickly traced the sigil for _peace_ into his skin. The caduceus cut into his arm, blood spurting, and he breathed in deeply, forcing himself to try and find the calm he was used to. His veins were still buzzing with the force of his orgasm and earlier arousal, the magical restlessness adding to the shaking of his body, and he bit his lip, poressing his caduceus further into skin.

Naked and wet, he sank to his knees, still shaking, inhaling deeply and clutching at his caduceus. He couldn't think, not yet, not until he was settled, and he counted his breaths. It took a long, terrifying ten minutes, but eventually, he felt his magic give, his heartbeat calm, and he sighed, massaging his temples to soothe the throbbing of his temples.

Finally, he stood on shaky legs, walking back to the bathroom. One sigil for _dry_ later, the water on the floor was gone, and Castiel found himself trembling with exhaustion. Not even bothering to dress himself, he simply stomped back to the bed and fell on to it, grabbing the many blankets and comforters around him.

He stared up at the ceiling, finally admitting to himself what he’d been trying to deny since the moment he’d met Dean.

The Dorcha wasn’t just another crush.

And Castiel had no idea what to do about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7**

Dean sought Castiel out the next morning, frowning and sighing as he found the paladin’s chambers empty. He had to apologize, to clear the air between them. No matter how attracted he was to the man, he couldn't presume any kind of relationship. 

If it was just a matter of scratching an itch, Dean would’ve gotten the man into his bed the day they’d met. But it was more than that - Dean’s  _ magic  _ responded to the paladin. The Mark pulsed whenever Castiel was around, carrying with it the arousal in his own veins. 

Whatever Castiel’s relationship with him, he couldn't forget their stations. Fuck their magics, fuck his libido - his first duty was to the people, and to Sam, like Dad had drilled into his mind. It was why he’d chosen to take the Mark in the first place, so that his brother could have a better life with Jess. That hadn’t worked out, but Dean was determined that he wouldn't fuck up the Witherlands’s one chance of reopening trade with Viridia - he would find Castiel and he would apologize to him. 

Which was why he went in search of the paladin within the castle, scowling when he couldn't find him. 

Sam was in the library, poring over some of the recent recruitment reports, and he looked up when Dean stormed in, raising an eyebrow in question. 

“Have you seen Cas?” he demanded. Sam’s eyes narrowed, though his lips curved into a knowing smirk at his elder brother. 

“Training arena, I think,” he answered. “He was up early today too, said he wanted to work off some energy before he and Eileen get back to workin’ in the lab.”

Dean stopped short, frown deepening. “And how’s that going?” he asked gruffly. 

Sam shrugged, sighing and setting down the document he was holding. “Not too great,” he admitted. “But Eileen’s excited, and I think she’s onto something.” 

The Dorcha nodded. “Think she can get us something to work with before the Féile next week?” 

“Dunno,” Sam replied. “You'd have to ask her and Cas that.” He eyed his brother for a long moment, before asking, “Speakin’ of… Is Cas staying for the Féile?”

Dean blinked, expression turning surprised, and Sam rolled his eyes as he realized that his brother hadn’t even taken that into consideration. 

“Dean,” he said exasperatedly. “Cas is…” he lowered his voice to a hiss, “the _ High Paladin _ of Viridia. He holds the magic of Life - which comes from the Sun. The Féile happens on the solar eclipse, when the sun is blocked by the moon.” 

“His powers will be at their weakest,” Dean murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Dammit, I never thought of it.” 

Sam snorted. “Obviously.” 

Dean cuffed his shoulder in retaliation. “Shut up, bitch,” he snarked. “Go back to your reading,” he waved his hands over the papers smattered around Sam, “And I’ll speak to him. I can’t raise his apprentice without anything of him, and I have a feeling Cas wants to get back to Viridia as soon as he can.” 

“Is that the message he had me send a carrier pigeon for?” Sam frowned. “To get something of his apprentice’s?” 

Dean nodded. “Probably, yeah.” he looked about, making sure there was no one else around, and then lowered his voice to continue, “He said he’s gettin’ the kid’s caduceus since they’re built with the paladins’ blood.” 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Paladins…  _ Viridians  _ use blood magic?” he asked in surprise. 

It was the elder Winchester’s turn to shrug. “Apparently,” he scoffed, “And they monitor it closely since it’s,” Sam noted that his brother really didn't do air-quotes all that well, holding back a snigger, “ _ taboo _ and all.” 

“Right,” Sam sighed. “Viridians.”

Dean’s eyes met his in a moment of long-held solidarity - it had been a long time, but Sam still remembered Jess’s positivity and how uncomfortable she’d been around blood-magic, even if it wasn’t dark. Viridians, in Sam’s experience, had a tendency to pick and choose what they liked to believe. 

Swallowing against the onslaught of memories, Sam nodded towards the door. 

“Arena,” he repeated, “Go and get your shit together, jerk.” 

The Dorcha didn't say anything else, doing as directed, but Sam knew his brother well enough to know that Castiel wasn’t just the High Paladin to him. 

_ Sometimes, _ he reflected darkly,  _ it sucked that he knew his brother’s boning habits so well.  _

*-*-*

_ Inhale...  _

One, two, three. 

_ Exhale... _

One, two, three, four, five. 

_ Inhale... _

One - two - three -

The world was quiet, a precarious calm that settled into Castiel's bones as he breathed in and out with the wind. It was colder than he was used to back home and the oxygen in his lungs was thinner, but the familiar rhythm and the movements soothed him as he finally fell into the peace he'd been searching for since last night. 

Hidden in this secluded corner of the arena, he didn't have to worry about anything but his breathing, didn't have to think about blazing green eyes or a hard, warm body pressing against his own -

By the Sun,  _ no _ . 

Inhale...

_ One-two-three- _

Exhale...

_ One-two-three-four-five- _

"There you are." 

Castiel jumped up at the sound, snarling as he whirled around to face the exact person he'd been trying to avoid. 

Dean stood there, a cocky grin on his face and an eyebrow raised as he stared back at Castiel definitely. 

"What do you want?" the paladin grumbled. "I'm meditating." 

He knew that he sounded sulky, but his mind was too chaotic, too disorganized for him to deal with other people right now. For a paladin who was used to keeping his emotion - his  _ thoughts  _ \- under tight control to preserve the balance of magic, it was very unsettling indeed. 

It was why he'd refused Benny's offer to spar again, why he'd retreated to a corner of the field where no one was likely to bother him. 

No one, it seemed, except the Dorcha himself. 

"I see that," Dean grinned, nodded at the caduceus and his blade, both of which lay next to where Castiel had been sitting. His expression turned serious and he sighed, stepping forward. 

Castiel moved back instantly and the movement did not go unnoticed, judging by the tightening of Dean's features and the way he pursed his lips. 

"Look," he said abruptly, "About last night..." 

"I apologize for the way I behaved, Your Grace," Castiel interrupted hastily. "I was... wound up. It's been a long few days." 

Dean looked taken aback, eyes widening at Castiel's apology, but the paladin had no intention of letting him know just how uncomfortable he was. It wasn't sex itself or arousal that  he found so discomfiting; while some paladins chose celibacy, Castiel himself was of the opinion that his body demanded as much attention as his mind did. Sex was a part of it, and he had never hesitated from satisfying his urges when he required - he even had a number of friends he often shared his bed with, as a mutually beneficial arrangement to both of them. 

It wasn't just Dean's  _ body  _ that he was attracted to, however; it was his mind, his loyalty and duty to his people - it was his  _ magic _ . 

Castiel had never met someone whose magic called to his own the way Dean's did. 

And that was straying into dangerous territory - he could not afford to let the magic of Death return to a place where it had been banished from. 

His magic had been buzzing since last night, itching to leave his skin, calling for its mate. He hadn't felt like this since he was a child, just beginning his apprenticeship and struggling to control his powers. He'd  _ leaked  _ magic over his chambers from  _ masturbating _ , for the Sun's sake! That hadn't happened since he was was a teenager whose voice just breaking. 

"Cas," Dean said carefully, "Cas, it's not-"

"Please, Dean," he cut in harshly. "It's just been a hard few days. I've sent word to a friend in Viridia, he'll bring Samandriel's caduceus within a couple of days and then I must return to my home as soon as possible." 

Dean's eyes narrowed and his gaze turned probing. Castiel didn't look away, didn't flinch, and for a long moment, they were both frozen, staring at one another challengingly. 

The Dorcha was the first to look away, sighing deeply. He nodded quietly, leaning against the trunk of the tree Castiel himself had been sitting beneath in meditation. 

"Of course, Your Grace," he said stiffly, his voice formal. For a second, Castiel allowed himself to feel the flash of regret at the reminder of their stations and the barriers between them, but he quickly pushed it down, biting his lip. 

"There's something else I need talk to ya about," he continued. Castiel's brow furrowed and he shot the man a questioning look. 

"You said you've sent a message back home?" at his nod, Dean's expression turned thoughtful and he said, "So assuming the carrier pigeon gets to your friend by today... That's at least another four days before he can get here?"

"I'd assume as much," Castiel agreed. "Why?" 

"Ummm..." Dean suddenly looked bashful, rubbing the back of his neck almost shyly. "The Lunar Féile is next week," he blurted abruptly and Castiel blinked in surprise. 

"The... what?"

"Would you like to stay for the festival?" 

"What festival?"

Dean's lip curved in a small smile and he nodded towards the sky. "The solar eclipse?" he asked, "Next week? The Lunar Féile comes around regularly, of course, but this year's is a total solar eclipse, which means it's a festival instead of just the round-table feasts." 

Castiel's stomach swooped in realization and an icy chill stiffened his spine. 

_ The solar eclipse. Next week.  _

When the sun would be blocked completely and his powers would be at their weakest. 

By the Lord, how the  _ hell  _ had he forgotten? 

Paladins tracked the solar and lunar cycles obsessively; Viridia would be left defenseless during the eclipses, for which they needed to make contingency plans. And as High Paladin, that was one of his most important duties -  _ how  _ could it have slipped his mind so easily?!

Dean didn't seem to be aware of his inner turmoil, instead simply offering him a small smile and raising an eyebrow. 

"There's dances and performances," he continued, "And everyone is invited. The castle's open to all, lord and peasant alike." 

He met Castiel's eyes with a shy smile and the paladin's heart jumped at the soft question.

"Would you like to stay?" he asked again. 

"It's an  _ eclipse _ , Dean," he replied stiffly, hating the way the Dorcha's face fell. "I can't... I'll be..." he looked away, too proud to admit that his magic would be at its weakest then. 

Not even Charlie had seen him when he couldn't use his powers; the paladins retreated to the Sanctuary during eclipses and spent their time praying and resting, and Castiel himself had spent the past decade within the Inner Sanctuary in meditation. 

"Well," Dean's voice was back to its crisp, formal tones and Castiel refused to admit to the second flash of disappointment that popped up. "It might be a good idea, anyhow, for you to stay."

"How so?" 

"My powers..." Dean cleared his throat, a touch of challenge in his voice, "will be strongest then, and it'll be easier to reach beyond the Veil. Might be best to call your apprentice then." 

Castiel sighed, biting his lip in consideration. What Dean was asking...

He'd be powerless on the day of the eclipse.  _ It wouldn't make a difference,  _ he supposed - no one except the Council members, Eileen, Sam, and Dean himself knew of his ability to use magic. But it  _ was  _ an admission of trust, an admission of weakness - and after the way he'd been unable to control himself and his magic over the past few days, it was a costly thing for Dean to ask of him. 

Yet... again, what choice did he have? 

At best, Balthazar would be able to return with Samandriel's caduceus in four days. It was close to the weekend already; assuming the princess's personal guard hadn't disbanded and were allowed on the castle grounds even after her arrest, he still wouldn't come to the Witherlands until next week. 

Castiel would have to stay in any case - what was a day or two more?

"Alright," he sighed, sinking into the ground, allowing himself to rest against the tree. "I shall stay. But," he leveled Dean with a stern look, "If I am to participate in this festival, then I shall expect to learn more about it." 

Because if there was one thing he'd learnt as paladin, it was that information -  _ knowledge  _ \- was power. He had no intention of harming the Fallen, but he needed to be armed; if he was going to be powerless in the Witherlands, then he was going to learn their weaknesses to defend himself. 

Dean nodded in response, though his expression was neutral, almost cold. "I'll tell Sam," he agreed. "He'll show you around the library."

Silence fell between them, not entirely comfortable, but not entirely uncomfortable either. There was an awareness of the boundaries that separated them - of their stations, of their duties, of their histories - but there was also the tentative feeling of a newly forming friendship that Castiel was loathe to turn away from. 

Did being High Paladin mean he couldn't make friends with the Dorcha? 

He couldn't invite Dean to his bed, but they could, at the very least, form an alliance? To bring comfort and happiness to both their peoples? 

He thought Charlie would like that.

"You're very close to your brother," he broke the silence, looking up at Dean, who glanced at him briefly and then turned his eyes back to the horizon. The sun was creeping up into the sky, the time getting closer to midday, and the land was slowly warming up. 

"Yeah," the Dorcha remarked. "Sam and I..." he looked down and shrugged. "We always have each other's backs. He..." he hesitated for a moment, and then continued, "He had the chance to go, once. But he came back - for me." 

"Go?" Castiel frowned. 

"Yeah." Dean didn't seem inclined to  say anything more, so he let the matter drop, staring out wistfully into the blue skies.  _ At least this much hadn't changed, _ he sighed, they were still the same beautiful blue they'd always been, with the fluffiness of the white clouds drifting across them lazily, almost as an afterthought. 

"You got anyone back home?" Dean asked suddenly. Castiel's eyes flew to his, and he found curiosity written plainly on the Dorcha's face. 

"Only Charlie," he answered softly. "She's..." he closed his eyes, summoning an image of the redhead behind his eyes, giggling happily as she teased. 

Lord, how was she doing? Imprisoned in the dungeons, left alone to herself, perhaps tortured by Marv? 

The Regent was a hard man, he knew - what if he was  _ hurting  _ the princess?

Swallowing, he banished the sudden image of her screaming, opening his eyes to turn back to Dean, whose expression had turned sympathetic. 

"Uh, man," he said awkwardly, "Don't worry. We'll get her out, you can totally get back together with her soon, I promise. I bet she'll be so happy to see you, she'll plant a big one on you right in front of everyone." There was a pinched, irritated look on his face. 

Castiel let out a snort, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. 

"Oh, she'll be happy to see me," he chuckled, "But she's more likely to punch me than kiss me in public." 

"Huh?" Dean asked confusedly. 

The paladin turned to him in amusement. 

"We're both gay, Dean," he said, ignoring the quiet voice that snapped at him that this was utterly irrelevant information to pass on to the Dorcha of the Witherlands. Very few in Viridia knew this truth themselves - succession was still a problem Charlie had to figure out, and he knew he had to keep it quiet lest the Regent use it as a reason to keep her from her throne. 

Dean's eyes widened and Castiel glared back at him challengingly. A moment later, he smirked and shrugged. 

"Bi myself," he admitted and the paladin nodded - he'd guessed as much, particularly from Jo's teasing yesterday. But it was nice to know. 

He refused to think about  _ why  _ that little nugget of information made his stomach swoop within desire; this was neither the time nor the place. 

"So..." Dean drawled, "No boyfriends back home then? A husband?"

Castiel rolled his eyes, finally getting to his feet and dusting his hands slapping his palms against his thighs in an attempt to rub out the dirt. 

"My duties as a High Paladin," he said, "didn't leave me with much time to socialize, I'm afraid. Charlie is all I have." 

"She's important to you, eh?" 

_ They were eye-to-eye,  _ Castiel noted, staring back with a tightness in his throat. "She's my everything," he said quietly, breaking the stare to bend down and pick up his caduceus and blade. "Practically my sister, the last family I've got." 

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Family don't end in blood." 

There was a quiet solidarity in his tone, as though the words were something he held close to his heart. And meeting his eyes now, seeing the sincerity reflected in them, Castiel felt as though the Dorcha truly  _ did  _ understand, in a manner that not many people did. 

The difference between his and Charlie's stations had always been too much for everyone else to bridge; but he and the princess had found their own dynamic. They didn't share secrets they shouldn’t, but she  _ was  _ his family. 

And he was hers - that was all that mattered. 

"Yeah," Castiel echoed Dean with a small smile. "It doesn't." 

*-*-*

Sam was waiting for the paladin, as Dean had promised. The sun was beginning to set by the time he made his way to the library. He'd spent the day in the lab with Eileen in the lab again, trying to work out different permutations of their spell to make grain grow. Progress was slow and he was getting frustrated, particularly because they were running out of the magic the Fallen had pulled from the ant colony. Eileen hadn't said anything, but her face had been far stormier than yesterday, her expression was getting more and more pinched as the day wore on. 

Which was why Castiel had welcomed the chance to head to the library soon after she declared them done for the day. He needed a distraction, both from his feelings for Dean, as well as the experiment itself, and the Lunar Féile sounded like the best one the Witherlands had to offer. 

"Hello?" he called as he walked into the library. The place was dimly lit, but there were huge glass windows that overlooked the training arena. Dying sunlight rendered the walls looking like gold, and Castiel inhaled deeply, already feeling more comfortable with the familiar smell old books, parchment and quill-ink. 

"Cas," Sam's voice sounded disembodied and the paladin turned in the direction of it, frowning. The younger Winchester emerged from behind a huge shelf, holding a scroll in his hands, a loose quill tucked behind his ear. 

"Hello, Sam," he replied repeated with a nod, following him as he moved over to sit at a rounded wooden table. Sam gestured for him to take a chair as well and Castiel did as directed, relaxing into the soft cushions comfortably. 

"Dean said you wanted to learn 'bout our history?" there was a strange note of tension in Sam's voice, but Castiel ignored it. 

"Indeed," he agreed. "I'd like to know more about the upcoming festival."

Sam's eyes narrowed at him, searching his expression for some kind of trickery. Castiel glared back defiantly, and the younger Winchester smiled suddenly, shrugging. 

"You'll be powerless then, won't you?"he asked curiously, his voice soft. 

Castiel tilted his head, neither confirming nor denying the statement. 

Sam sighed. "I suppose it's understandable you'd wanna know," he muttered. He placed the scroll on the table, grabbing the quill from behind his ear - Castiel noted with amusement how familiar an action it seemed to be, as though the younger Winchester had a practice of doing this - and placing it next to the scroll. 

"What do you know of the history of the Witherlands?" Sam asked then. 

"Only what all Viridians are taught, I'm afraid," Castiel admitted sheepishly. He didn't slouch or look away, though - yes, he had been taught wrong, he was beginning to see, but he wanted to learn and right his wrongs, not turn his back on them or pretend they didn't exist. 

"Which is?" Sam pressed. 

"The story of Michael and Lucifer," Castiel shrugged. "How they built the Capital, how Lucifer fell to dark magic and Michael banished him from Viridia and used the Sword to draw the borders between the two countries." He paused, troubled as always by the bit of this bit of tale, "And then thrust the Sword in anger into stone and was never able to pull it out."

Sam nodded. "Sounds about right," he muttered. "Well, the drawing of the borders and the banishment of the Fallen. But the first thing you gotta remember is that Lucifer didn't fall into dark magic." 

Castiel frowned. "But he was considered dark-"

"He  _ turned  _ dark," Sam interrupted. "Because of the  _ use  _ of his magic. You know the Fallen use blood-magic," he nodded at his blade, hanging by his hip, "Lucifer's descent into dark magic came from the use of another's blood without his consent." 

"Necromancy, by itself, Your Grace, isn't dark," Sam's voice held a bite to it, a tension that had Castiel flinching in discomfort. 

"I know, Sam," he said quietly. "I've..." he smiled weakly, "I've had to reevaluate quite a lot bit of my learnings."

Sam leveled him with a searching, frustrated look. "You wouldn't be the first," he muttered. Castiel frowned, opening his mouth to question his statement, but the younger Winchester didn't give him time to, instead forging ahead with the story. 

"Even after Michael banished Lucifer to the Witherlands, he wasn't completely dark - up until then, he'd been fighting because his brother had suddenly declared his magic evil, despite having loved him for it his entire life. Lucifer was heartbroken, but he wanted to keep his people safe. So he set up a civilization here, in the Witherlands."

He looked down at the scroll he'd placed on the table and unfurled it, gently passing it over to the paladin for perusal. _ It was a design,  _ Castiel realized with a start,  _ of the castle itself _ \- there were numbers scrawled across the parchment, with notes and details on building it. 

"Sam, this is-" he breathed. "It's-"

"One of our most treasured memories," Sam finished, the same awe reflected in his own voice. "Yeah. Lucifer built the castle, gave us our homes. But still, the people around him - our ancestors - they failed in one thing... they never noticed the madness growing within their leader. If they had..." Sam trailed off with a sigh.

"What happened?" Castiel asked. 

"Lucifer wanted revenge on his brother," Sam said simply. "He recruited a number of the Fallen to the cause - at first, they joined up because they believed they'd been wronged by their families, who had also turned them out for their ability to reach beyond the Veil." 

"But it didn't go well?" 

"When Lucifer used the blood of his soldiers without their consent, he fell from grace," Sam said softly. "The Mark he'd had tattooed on his arm turned dark, not because of the nature of the magic he practiced but because he tried to kill his own brother."

"The Mark of Cain," Castiel murmured. "The one your brother bears?" 

There was a strange, almost sad expression on Sam's face and the High Paladin wondered at it.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat and continued, "Lucifer tried to kill Michael, but he was defeated and killed. The rest of them came back to the Witherlands and decided to build a life here 'cause they knew the Viridians would never take 'em back, not after what happened."

"And you've been here ever since," it was Castiel's turn to sigh. 

It was the same story he had heard growing up, the same story his mentor and every other Viridian around him had told - only it was the Fallen's tale this time. 

How could the same tale be told so  _ very  _ differently?

Troubled, Castiel looked down at the scroll of architectural design and marveled at the scribbles, knowing that Sam was entrusting him with a piece of the Fallen's history, something that defined them. Sighing, he rubbed a thumb over the corner of it, looking back up with a raised eyebrow. 

"And the festival?" he asked. For the first time since he'd arrived here, Sam's face lit up with a warm smile, eyes gleaming with excitement. 

"The day that Lucifer tried to attack Michael," he said, "was an eclipse. He knew that Viridia would be powerless then - your powers as paladin, comes from the Sun and the magic of Life, right?" It wasn't a question, but Castiel nodded along anyway. 

"Lucifer's - and ours, I guess - magic comes from the magic of Death, and the moon. He knew Viridia would fall if he attacked then."

"But he failed," Castiel pointed out. 

"He failed," Sam agreed. "And was killed. The eclipse after that, his general - Gadreel, who'd taken the mantle of Dorcha after him - declared that we would celebrate every eclipse as a Lunar Féile to remind ourselves that it wasn't Lucifer's magic, but the use of it that turned him dark." 

"A Moon Festival," Castiel muttered. "What exactly happens?" 

Sam grinned. "Oh, this and that," he said airily, "The Dorcha declares the festival open, we dance, eat and then honor the dead." 

Castiel opened his mouth to ask further questions -  _ how  _ did they honor the dead? What did the 'opening of the festival'  _ involve  _ exactly? - when the sound of loud footsteps distracted both of them. 

Dean stumbled into the library, hair astray as though he'd been running his hand through it. Castiel's heart jumped at the sight of him, and he scowled, inwardly cursing himself. 

"There you are," the Dorcha grinned, "Nerds." 

Sam snorted. "What d'ya want?" he asked resignedly.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel offered his own greeting. 

"C'mon, Cas!" he stomped over to them to offer the paladin a hard, friendly slap on the shoulder. Sam raised an eyebrow at the familiar greeting, but Dean ignored him, placing a hand on the sword at his hip. 

"Wanna spar again, Your Grace?" he asked. 

Castiel's eyes flew to meet bright, challenging green ones and he bit his lower lip. He'd be lying if he said he didn't want to - take away the fact that he was ridiculously attracted to the Dorcha, he was one of the finest opponents Castiel had ever faced. 

He  _ wanted  _ to fight him. He  _ also  _ wanted to throw him to the ground and ravage him, which was exactly why he was hesitating. 

"Aw, come on!" Dean said, reading his expression correctly, "It'll be fun, I promise. No one's been able to gimme a run for my money like you did. I'd like to knock you on your ass and retain my title of reigning champion."

"You should show me some respect," Castiel growled in response, "I  _ am  _ the High Paladin." 

"Then prove it," Dean smirked. "Come train with mmme." 

Sam was watching them interestedly _ , _ Castiel noted out of the corner of his eyes. But he couldn't back down now - he'd never been one to turn down a challenge, a fact Charlie had taken quite the advantage of in their childhood. 

"Very well," he agreed. "I shall spar with you."

"Fuck, yeah!" Dean slapped his back again. 

"Sam," Castiel turned back to the younger Winchester, who was rolling his eyes at his brother. "Could we continue this later?" 

Sam waved his hands over to the door. "Go on, Cas," he said, "I'll see you later. Go kick some sense into my jerk of a brother."

Dean scowled at him. "Shut up, bitch!" he called out over his shoulder as he stepped out of the library. Castiel followed him out, waving to Sam in goodbye. 

He wouldn't admit it, but his stomach was swooping in desire and his lips curved in a quiet smile at the thought of sparring with Dean again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8**

The next few days fell into a strangely fulfilling routine. Castiel found himself quickly pulled into the ways the Witherlands worked, running about the castle with surprising ease. He spent most of his time in the lab with Eileen, but it wasn't long before Benny requested his help in training their newest recruits. Jo insisted that he teach her some new techniques and help her train some of the female castle staff as well. One thing led to another, and somehow, the High Paladin found himself in demand, helping out where he could. 

With the Féile coming up, Ellen was ecstatic to have one more helping hand, though Dean had requested that he not let anyone know that he was a paladin at all. Castiel had reluctantly agreed, casting an illusion spell over his caduceus so that it just appeared to be another blade at his hip. He wasn't happy about the deception, but he understood why it was necessary - enough of the Fallen eyed him suspiciously because he was Viridian. Only a few of the trusted castle staff knew, Jo and Benny amongst them. Finding out that he was a paladin, much less the High Paladin at that, could prove detrimental to not just to his safety, but also Dean's rule as leader since he'd let him join them without question. 

_ Dean... _

Castiel's attraction to the Dorcha didn't vanish; if anything, it worsened over the next few days. They sparred daily - it became something of a ritual between them, the only time spent together, trading quips and mock-insults. Neither of them had managed to best one another yet, though Castiel had come close twice or thrice. 

Each time, however, he'd been distracted by the feeling of Dean's legs thrown over his own, or Dean's hot gaze. 

And every day, he'd return to his chambers, flushed with arousal, race to his bathroom and mastrurbate until his magic threw water all over the place. It had gotten so bad he'd been forced to cast a containment spell within his chambers to keep his magic restrained.

He didn't know how long he could keep it up. 

To make matters worse, Dean sought him out for meals - they often had lunched together, chatting about their day and exchanging stories. Sam and Eileen, along with Jo, also joined them occasionally, and Castiel had to admit that he was growing rather fond of them. 

The Fallen weren't  _ evil _ ; they loved as fiercely, as openly and as deeply as the Viridians themselves did. They also fought, also made mistakes, and also hurt like Castiel had seen Viridians do - they were simply human, who went about their lives like his own people did. 

It was a diametric shift in perspective, one that he didn't know how to process. His whole life, he'd been taught that the Witherlands were filled with Fallen people whose magic led them astray - what he saw was the exact opposite. The magic of Death made the Fallen sensitive to the wonders of Life; they lived each moment more passionately, more joyfully than he'd ever experienced before. 

And as their Dorcha, Dean laughed the loudest, cried the softest, and lived the most dangerous without hesitating. 

It was exhilarating, watching Dean. Castiel's heart raced each moment he was in the presence of the elder Winchester, listening to him tease Sam and wind Jo up. He tried, time and again, to squash his growing crush, but he couldn't help it - _ Dean was beautiful, and, _ Castiel was beginning to suspect,  _ he wasn't going away.  _

The most terrifying thing about it was that Castiel didn't know if he wanted him to. 

*-*-*

"I give up!" 

Castiel looked up, frowning at Eileen's annoyed cry. She was standing over her table, hands thrown above her head in irritation and he sighed, getting to his feet and walking over to her. 

_ You alright?  _ he asked. She shook her head, looking down in defeat - the last of the bottled up magic lay in front of them, a tiny drop that was going to be useless. 

_ No, _ she signed. Her hands were shaking, Castiel noted, brows drawing together in a worried scowl as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and lead her back to the spot he'd claimed as his own since starting work in the lab. 

_ One whole colony,  _ she said. Her face was sunken, he realized, tired and exhausted from the overuse of magic and lack of sleep. _ A whole colony and I have nothing to show for it! _

_ Not nothing, _ he told her gently. _ We know what doesn't work now. We just need to figure out what does work.  _

_ And we're no closer to doing that today than we were yesterday! _ she signed furiously. "They..." she breathed in deeply, "They  _ died _ , and I can't..." 

Animal though the colony may have been, it was a heavy loss of life. And the Fallen knew how valuable life was, in any form. 

"Eileen," he said firmly, squeezing her hands gently. "We can't give up." 

She looked at him, perilously close to tears.  _ The festival is tomorrow,  _ she signed miserably.  _ You're leaving. And I...  _ she looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. 

Realization hit him like a bucket of icy water and Castiel swallowed hard. 

The festival was tomorrow - in all the hustle and the bustle of the castle, it hadn't struck him how little time he had left in the Witherlands. 

But Balthazar still hadn't shown up; without any information, Castiel didn't know what to do. 

Sighing, he reached out to grab Eileen's hands to get her attention. She turned to him with furrowed brows and he shook his head quietly. 

_ I may be leaving soon,  _ he said,  _ but I'm not abandoning you. We'll figure it out, I promise.  _

She sighed, swallowing hard before offering him a small nod _. I think I'm gonna go get some air,  _ she said. _ You should too.  _

He shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

"Maybe," he grunted noncommittally. 

The corner of her lips curved up in a watery smile. "Make sure you get some sleep between today and tomorrow night," she said, pushing him away lightly and getting to her feet. "Or you're gonna be in trouble for the Féile." 

Before he could ask her what she meant, she'd already turned on her feet and walked out of the lab, heading in the direction of the library. She was, no doubt, going to go see Sam, and Castiel sighed as he watched her depart. 

He moved over to her table, putting the clutter away, feeling the weight of his caduceus heavy at his side. What use was all his power if he couldn't help those who needed it? 

As though mocking him, a single seed lay innocently next to the last bit of the bottled magic. It was brown and gnarled, and Castiel grit his teeth as he picked it up and held it to his face, scowling angrily at it. 

Why wouldn't it  _ grow _ ? 

Were the Fallen doomed because of for a mistake their ancestor had made centuries previously? 

Biting his lower lip, he stuck the seed unceremoniously into the pockets of his robes, quickly cleaning the lab out and stepping out, closing the door behind him. It slammed against the hinges with a satisfying echo and he grunted, heading down the direction of the arena. 

He needed to work off some steam himself. 

*-*-*

The day of the Féile dawned bright and early, the cold Witherland wind blowing through the open, cropless fields bitterly. It whistled through the trees, waking Dean up as it always did and the Dorcha sat up in bed, blinking. 

_ He had plenty of time, _ he noted, staring out at the sky through the window, and rolled on to his back. His hands moved lazily down his body, his morning wood poking through his pants, and he groaned, gently pressing his palm over his trousers, breathing in deeply. 

Blue flashed behind his closed eyes, and Dean let his mind wander, allowed himself to want just this once. Here, where his magic could - and often did - go free, where the Mark lay open and unhidden, where he was the Dorcha, but also just Dean... here, he could let himself imagine Cas on his knees for him, blowing him the way he wanted. 

"Cas," he moaned, slipping a hand beneath his trousers, thumbing the tip of his cock. He wasn't surprised to feel the dripping wetness dripping; he'd woken up from a particularly  risqué  dream, and just the thought of Cas was enough to excite him most days. He raked a nail down the length of his erection, wondering if the paladin would enjoy his kinky side - Dean liked sex, and he liked it rough, unapologetically. 

He threw his blankets aside, ripping his trousers off of himself and tossing them away. The bedpost rattled, his magic manifesting dropping out without resistance, and Dean groaned, pulling his legs up to plant his feet firmly on the mattress. He used one hand to jerk his cock back and forth ruthlessly, the other one moving further down, pressing down against his bottom. 

It had been a while since he'd played with his own ass - even longer since he'd let anyone else touch him there. Lisa hadn't enjoyed pegging him much and Dean wasn't one to ask anyone to do anything they were uncomfortable with, so he'd gone without. 

He gave in to the urge now, rubbing his fingers over the tight clench of his hole. Pulling back, he grabbed the lube he kept next to his bed, pouring a generous amount onto his hands, rubbing them to warm it up. A moment later, wonderful warmth covered his cock and he let loose a whine as he jerked himself off easily, feeling the orgasm build at the base of his spine. 

"Ca-Cas," he panted. 

Would the paladin fuck him like Dean wanted to be fucked? Or would he open himself up and allow Dean to slide in, just tight enough that it would be hot and wet and perfect? 

"Fuck," he gasped, pressing his own fingers into his hole, moving them in and out. The Mark pulsed on his hand and Dean glanced at it as he fucked his fingers in and out of himself.  

_ They could use magic, _ he imagined, Castiel teasing him mercilessly while watching him from the side. He'd open Dean up with magic and then stand by the edge of the bed as he sent tendrils of magic dancing along the Dorcha's skin. 

And then, when he was spent, left loose and open, he'd fuck him hard and fast, ignoring the way Dean cried out in oversensitivity, clenching around his beautiful cock - 

"Hell," he sighed, feeling the hot splash of come around his fist, swallowing hard. His heart raced and the only sound he could hear was the pounding of his own blood, thrumming through his veins loudly. 

His feelings for Castiel were growing steadily, by the day. The paladin had thrown himself into castle life easily - he worked with Eileen at the lab, helped Benny and Jo train recruits, and Ellen had burst into his office yesterday to inform him tartly how helpful Cas was being and  _ could he please take some lessons from the Viridian?  _

In short, the man had endeared himself to everyone he'd met, and Dean couldn't blame them. Suspicious as they were of Viridian nobles, Castiel's guileless and yet somehow commanding presence had put them at ease - he didn't think of himself as better than them, only different. 

It boggled their minds; it also made them hopeful, because the last Viridian they'd met was Jess and she'd been just as open, even if she wasn't as trusting as Castiel. 

Sighing, he rubbed his palms against his shirt, cleaning them off as best as he could. He stared up at the ceiling, mind wandering as he pictured all the things he needed to do today. 

As Dorcha, he'd have to declare the festival open - and then, he groaned as he remembered, he'd have to  _ dance _ . Following that though, he brightened, was the kids' invocation of the dead. He'd be lying if he said that he wasn't looking forward to the rugrats' singing; they'd been practicing hard for this and Ben was going to lead them in chorus tonight. 

The stalls would be going up today, he knew, wondering if they'd need a hand. Sam and Eileen were riding out to make sure that the Square was well set-up for the villagers to sell their wares; it'd be a fun fair for everyone to enjoy. 

And at the end of the festival, two nights from now, they'd bury a potful of flowers over the grave of a newly Fallen - what greater way to honor the dead than by allowing them to give new Life? 

That was the theory anyway; the past few Féile, Dean knew, hadn't quite had that effect. The ceremony had initially been started with a single seed planted over a grave; now, with how little grew here, they ended up potting flowers that were already grown over the graves. 

It was symbolic, but Dean hated the way things had fallen apart. 

He sighed again, the arousal having faded already, and turned over. His fun time was over - now, he needed to be the Dorcha again, throw on the mask Dad had taught him to wear when he was a kid and learning his duties. 

*-*-*

The Féile , Castiel discovered, was an event that the Fallen took extremely seriously. Ellen roped him into helping out in the kitchens and he was summoned as early as ten o'clock in the morning, despite Eileen's warning that he sleep the day away in preparation for the night. He yawned, quickly dressing himself and heading into the castle's kitchens, rolling his shoulders.

People were milling up and down the hallways - it was more crowded than the paladin had ever seen it before. The castle almost always seemed deserted, given that most of them worked outside, but today, the gates were left open to all any and all who wanted to enter. It reminded Castiel of the Altar and he swallowed the pang of homesickness and worry for Charlie that tightened his throat momentarily. 

"There you are, boy!" Ellen called from the far end as he walked into the kitchens. She was up to her arms in flour and he breathed in deeply, enjoying the smell of freshly baked bread that lay over the entire room, like a warm blanket. 

"How may I help, Milady?" he asked, bowing low. Soft giggles reached his ears and he turned to see some of the younger women blushing at them; he offered them a quick wave, used to their titters by now, and headed over to where Ellen gestured for him to help her. 

"Know anythin' about kneading dough?" she asked with a raised brow. Castiel shrugged, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

Charlie's favorite pastime had been playing house - and with no playmate other than Cas himself, she'd roped him into her tea parties and cooking lessons often enough. And when she'd hit her teens, the Regent had deemed it proper that she take legitimate lessons from an acclaimed chef.

Tavern owner Gordon Walker had walked into his first lesson, expecting to teach a young, irritable and spunky princess - he hadn't expected to see her hanging off the shoulders of a teenage paladin-in-training, guilted into keeping her company while she tried not to mouth off the teacher chosen by her uncle. 

It was, in short, quite a lesson to remember. 

Castiel's breath shorted at the memory and he pushed it away, smiling at Ellen and offering her a small nod. 

"I know a little bit," he said honestly, "You might have to keep an eye on my work." 

"Better a little work than none at all," she replied diplomatically - it was, Castiel had discovered, one of the prime motives of the Fallen. Better something than nothing at all; in the cold, wet, miserable Witherlands, every small bit counted. 

"Get the flour there," she directed and he did as asked, reveling in the bustling business of the castle. It was going to be a day to remember, he smiled to himself. 

It was around midday that they broke for lunch. Ellen had had him chopping up what scant vegetables they had; the Féile was the one time when they'd all eat extravagantly, she insisted, no matter what lengths she had to go to make it happen. So Castiel did what he could to help, sighing as he finally sat down after about three hours on his feet, savoring the bowl of thick soup in front of him. 

"Cas!"

He was halfway through the food when Jo's call distracted him. He swallowed the mouthful he was chewing on, raising his arm in greeting, and the blonde smiled, turning to Sam who was lurking tall behind her. 

"Lunch," she ordered, and he shrugged, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and steering her through the crowd towards where Castiel was seated. 

"Ellen running you ragged?" Sam asked with a smile. 

"It's nothing I cannot handle," Castiel replied. 

"Well," Jo said, "you're coming with us after lunch." 

He blinked. "I...am?" 

"You've been in the Witherlands almost a week," she answered. "And it's the  _ Féile _ . We don't have many sights to offer, but the Square will be fun today!" 

Seeing his doubtful look, she added quickly, "You can't miss that, trust me." 

Before he could say anything else, she walked towards Ellen to get her own bowl of soup. Sam chuckled at Castiel's nonplussed look. 

"Might as well listen to her," he advised. "She doesn't take no for an answer." 

He snorted, remembering her insistence that he train her castle staff. "I'm aware," he sighed. Sam laughed out loud at that, gazing after Jo fondly. 

"Eileen will be joining us too," he added thoughtfully. "Been a while since we got to spend time together." 

"Have you been together very long?" Castiel asked softly. Sam's eyes moved to his, a guarded expression falling into place as he shrugged. 

"About three years now," he replied. 

"How did you meet?" Castiel asked cautiously, wondering at the fact that this seemed to be a sensitive topic. He avoided Sam's eyes, bending his head to blow on the soup, even though it wasn't as hot as it had been. 

"She, uh..." he cleared his throat, "she helped me through a tough time, became my best friend. It was a while before I worked up the courage to ask her out though."

Castiel chanced a glance at the younger Winchester's face; there was a dark, sorrowful glint in his eyes and the paladin sighed, about to change the subject when Sam spoke again. 

"Couple years ago," he said, "My, uh... a girl wandered into the Witherlands. Viridian - I saved her from the wisps."

"Like Dean saved me?" Castiel asked softly. 

Sam nodded. "Her name was Jess," he said, his voice wistful. "We fell in love. But I..." he looked away, swallowing hard, "she wanted me to go to University with her, wanted me to leave the Witherlands. But I couldn't." 

"Because the borders were closed?" he frowned. 

"Among other things," Sam said vaguely. "Dean tried to work things out for me, tried to send me with her..." he turned back to Castiel with a tired smile. "But it didn't work out - she left me soon after we started University and I came home. I met Eileen when I was wallowing in self-pity after." 

He barked out a delighted laugh. "She refused to let me sit and feel sorry for myself," he recalled fondly, "Challenged me to join her experiments and work my ass off." 

Castiel could picture it; the young scientist, ordering a younger Winchester about, not taking no for an answer. She was a gentle soul, but she didn't hesitate to make herself heard. 

"Well, you seem very happy together," he said sincerely. Sam looked surprised, and then smiled, nodding. 

"She's my everything," he said quietly. "And I'm..." his look turned sheepish, "I'm thinking of proposing," he confessed. "At the end of the Féile." 

"Sam, that's wonderful!" Castiel exclaimed. "Does Dean know?" 

He nodded shyly. "He helped me pick the ring out." His eyes darted this way and that, and he added in a low voice, "No one else does, though, so..." 

"I shall keep it quiet," Castiel agreed. "But I'm certain she's going to say yes."

A strange fondness lit his belly and he felt an answering smile curve his lips as he sighed. Jo bounded back, grinning widely and thrust her own bowl at the table, waggling her brows. 

"Mom said you can go with us!" she exclaimed. "Had to beg and plead, but she agreed. You're in for a treat, Cas," she reached over to slap his back and he coughed, the mouthful of soup he'd taken going down the wrong way. 

"Jo!" Sam scolded, handing Castiel a glass of water. She looked sheepish, shrugging her shoulders in apology. 

"Sorry," she said. 

Castiel chuckled, "Quite alright," he told her. "If it means I get to ride into town with you, Milady." 

Sam rolled his eyes as she slapped him excitedly again. They finished the rest of their lunch in relative silence after that, occasionally chatting about things. Castiel followed them out once he was done, wondering what to expect. 

Jo chattered excitedly as they mounted their horses soon after. Sam had motioned for them to go on while he went to get Eileen, and Castiel had waved him off, joining the blonde as they rode through the castle gates into the Square. 

_ It was a warm day,  _ he was almost startled to realize. He removed his cloak and stuffed it into his bag, feeling brave enough to move about with just his woolen furs as he dug his heels into the horse's side. Jo was already riding ahead of him, calling to random people on the streets, waving about when she saw someone she recognized.

The town was bustling with activity, people milling about the roads, lingering excitedly on the sides. Wrapped in their furs and woolen cloths, they didn't hesitate to stop and chat with neighbors and friends, bursting out into loud laughter, calling to one another from opposite ends. 

The Square, Castiel soon saw, was the centre of the town, where a number of the villagers were setting up small, wooden stalls and carts. Wares of all manners were being sold, from wooden carvings to jewelry made of beads and other knick-knacks. 

It was wonderful - it was chaos all around, and he loved it. It reminded him of the Viridian fairs that came around every few years, though he himself hadn't been to one in far too long a time. His last memory of it was from when Charlie was barely a teenager, hanging onto his side, wide-eyed and enchanted as he took part in an archery contest to win her her favorite teddy bear. 

Sighing, he rolled through the town, startled when Jo pulled him to her side and tucked herself beneath his arm. He looked down at her in surprise, but she ignored his questioning look, instead waving to a tall, skinny man who was waving back enthusiastically. 

"Garth!" she bounded over to kiss his cheek happily. "Meet Cas. Cas, Garth." 

The man looked vaguely familiar, Castiel thought, but he bowed, shaking hands with him. 

"It's so good to meet you!" he said excitedly. 

"Cas's helpin' out at the castle," Jo added, "Both Mom and Eileen seem to have adopted him." 

Castiel went red from her praise and Garth chuckled, slapping his back lightly. 

"Well, you're welcome here, then friend!" he cried. 

"Thank you," he answered shyly. 

"Come meet my wife," he said, "Bess, hon!" he turned around to call out to a petite young woman, who waved back.

And so it went on - Jo attached herself to his side, dragging him from stall to stall, introducing him to everyone she knew. Castiel could barely keep track of all the names, but he smiled politely, nodded and bowed where he could - each one, he realized, held a haggard expression on their faces. They were all  _ real  _ people, no longer the 'dark' Fallen, and his heart lifted with each smile he received. 

Charlie, he knew, would see the good in them, just as he himself did.  _ He would do everything in his power to reopen trade, _ he vowed, he wasn't going to be their savior - they didn't need one. But he had influence they didn't and he was going to use it. 

Grinning to himself, he waited eagerly for the sun to sink, excitement rising up as he watched Jo jump on Sam when he rode into the Square with Eileen at his side. 

"Where's Dean?" he asked the younger Winchester. 

"On his way," Sam answered. "Last I saw him, he was whining about his ceremonial robes."

_ As usual, then, _ Eileen snickered. Sam snorted in agreement and Jo bounded off to where Ellen was walking into the Square herself. 

"You're in for a treat, Cas," Eileen told him, reaching out to hug him quickly. 

"I'm excited," he answered honestly. "What happens when the sun sets?" 

Sam leveled him with a look that was both excitement and awe. 

"The Féile begins," he said solemnly. "And we go mad." He looked at the skies and laughed out loud, Eileen pinching his side affectionately. 

It wasn't an answer, but Castiel didn’t need one any longer. Because the sun was setting, he saw, and the madness was about to begin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 9**

Dean threw his legs over Impala’s side, grumbling to himself about the need for ceremony. His new robes chafed; the breeches were almost too tight and his cloak was barely enough protection from the cold. But he was the Dorcha and the Fallen enjoyed so few joyous moments, Bobby had slapped the back of his head and asked him to suck it up. 

It wasn’t a procession in entirety, but a few of the castle guards flanked him on either side, Benny leading the march down the road to the Square. Sam had offered to come along with them, but Dean had refused, knowing his brother would rather be with Eileen. He was looking forward to the screeching  _ yes  _ of the proposal tonight - Sammy deserved all that and more. 

Grinning to himself, he rode forward in excitement. No matter how many of these he saw, each Féile set his heart racing. Impala neighed and Dean let loose a delighted yell, his smile widening at Benny’s answering call. 

The town was crowded and at the centre of it stood the Square, proud and imposing, inviting visitors from everywhere within the Witherlands to come and set up their stalls. Peddlers were already roaming the streets, calling out prices and wares, and Dean waved to a number of familiar faces as he rode past them. 

Benny called them to a halt about half a mile from the centre of the Square and Dean slowed to a slow trot, Impala snorting and throwing her head back for a bite of the apple he held out. Patting her gently, he looked up, straightening at the sight of the faces staring back at him, hopeful expressions on their faces. 

The First Blade hung by his side imposingly, still within the leather sheath. The robes he wore were short-sleeved, made specifically for this instance - the Mark was visible to everyone, angry and red on his skin, an adornment he’d accepted humbly when he took it from Sam. The circlet on his brow was made of pure gold and Dean felt the weight of it as he dismounted, the crowd parting for him. 

The Square went silent as he walked to where the bonfire was set up, right in the middle, built and ready for him to light. Standing there, a step above everyone of his subjects, he breathed in deeply, instinctively seeking out Sam's face for support. His brother was at the very front, Eileen tucked into his side, both of them smiling widely, encouraging expressions on their faces.

Exhaling slowly, Dean raised a hand, and loud cheers erupted from the Fallen. 

"Tonight," he called over the loud din, "Tonight we celebrate the Féile as we've done for centuries. We do this," the crowd fell silent again, each of them watching him with wide eyes, "to remind ourselves that we are not evil, but we  _ can  _ be."

He swept his gaze through the throngs of people standing in front of him; being the Dorcha had never felt this heavy before, not even when he'd taken it from Sam. 

"Centuries ago," he said softly, "Our ancestor turned dark because he lost sight of what it meant to be a Necromancer. We honor the dead, we don't use 'em." He paused, his eyes landing on where Castiel stood tall and proud, watching him with an unreadable expression. 

Blue met green and Dean felt a tingle run up his spine; by the Moon, he wanted to grab the man and kiss him senseless. His spine straightened instinctively and he thought he saw a flash of approval on the paladin's face before it vanished. 

"So, tonight," he continued, "We honor the dead, remember that magic is just a tool we have to do so!" 

Stepping forward, he pulled the First Blade from its sheath and held it up for all to see. The bone felt heavy in his hands and Dean gulped as he turned it down, pointing it at his own hand. The Mark pulsed visibly and he breathed in deeply - the crowd fell silent in reverent awe, holding their breath together collectively. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean saw Cas straighten up in alarm. He shook his head imperceptibly, sighing as Sam pulled him down and whispered something urgently into his ears. Without giving himself any more time to think, Dean brought the blade down on his arm, slicing through the skin easily. 

Pain erupted in a million pins and needles and he grit his teeth, looking up at his people, who were watching him anxiously. This was the Dorcha's right and duty - one couldn't be a leader if one couldn't bleed for his people, he knew, and so, he breathed in deeply, ignoring the way his gut tightened from the metallic tang of his own blood. Instead, he smiled slowly at them, offering them a quick, sharp nod, even as he carved over the shape of the Mark with the First Blade. 

Thunderous applause and cheers burst out from his audience, and Dean could pick out individual voices through the din that were yelling his name through the din. His vision was beginning to darken, his head becoming woozy, but he held firm, dropping the Blade once the Mark was finished. The crowd slowly quieted again, watching him as he moved to where the bonfire was waiting for him to light it. 

His magic buzzed, jumped, and he gave in to it, reaching his arm out to the bonfire and holding it above the wood. A single drop of blood ran down the length of his arm and fell on to the stick right at the top. 

The sigil for  _ fire  _ was carved onto it - his blood fell exactly on top of the shape. For a moment, there was nothing, and the crowd inhaled collectively. Dean looked up and smiled, and then closed his eyes, throwing himself into the magic. 

_ Burn _ , he thought. Behind his eyes, a bright light flashed, and he opened them to see the spark jumping across the wood, the fire erupting even as the pain in his arm receded to a dull throb. 

"With this," he roared over the din of the Fallen, who burst into cheers, "I declare the Féile under way!" 

The eclipse itself would only take place only tomorrow. They'd all gather around at that time to watch the moon block the sun then; Dean had planned on raising Samandriel then, but without the caduceus, it was impossible. For now, he intended to enjoy the festival - the sun had set and the new moon was rising in the sky, a mysterious dark force that no one could see. 

He stepped down, stumbling from the blood loss and the magic. Gritting his teeth, he tried to hold himself up, but his legs were weak and he was about to fall - 

\- only to be held up by strong arms banding around his waist, pulling him to his feet.

Familiar blue eyes met his own concernedly and Dean's snarky response died on his lips as he swallowed hard. 

"Are you alright?" Castiel asked quietly. He was staring at the Mark, which was still bleeding, and Dean's magic thrummed at the close proximity, itching to burst from get out of his skin. He grit his teeth, cursing inwardly. 

_ Shut your trap _ , he snarled mentally at the Mark. There was a sense of a grumble, but the pulsing lessened up, and he untangled himself from Castiel's grip, quickly holding his arm close to his chest and not letting the other man see it.

Castiel was the High Paladin of Viridians - they were the most sanctimonious bastards he knew. No doubt he thought this was the most savage ritual he'd seen yet; what would he say when the kids were taken to sing at the graveyard? Or when they all wore masks to dance around the fire? 

Refusing to admit to the way his heart sank in his chest, Dean offered him a polite, cold smile. 

"I'm fine," he muttered. "You should go..." he waved his hand over to where the fire was burning merrily and where everyone was off to get their masks from Bobby's stall, "Join in on the fun."

Castiel hesitated, eyes lingering on Dean. 

"What?" he snapped. 

The paladin shook his head, sighing. "That was..." he paused, searching. 

"Dirty?" Dean said bitterly, "Savage?  _ Fallen?"  _

He braced himself for the response, heart hammering in his chest. Castiel met his eyes unflinchingly, reaching out to gently take his hand - rough fingers traced the shape of his fingers, thumbing over the blood tenderly. 

"Beautiful," he finished simply. "Haunting." 

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the Dorcha's cheek, palming his face quickly. 

"Save me a dance tonight, Your Grace," he whispered in Dean's ears. 

Pulling back, he smiled -  _ almost shyly _ , Dean noted absently - and then turned on one foot, walking back into the crowd, leaving behind a dumbstruck Dorcha. 

The Féile was well under way, the sounds of laughter and life around him, yet all Dean could hear was the pounding of his own heart as he raised his hand to his cheek. The ghost of Castiel's lips lingered and he felt his lips curve into a small smile. 

_ Oh we'll dance, Milord, _ he thought, glancing down at his Mark, which thrummed happily.  _ We'll dance.  _

*-*-*

Castiel exhaled slowly as he stepped back, eyes scanning for a sign of Sam or Eileen. His heart was still racing, his palms sweaty, and he swallowed tightly, refusing to think about what he'd just done. 

He’d kissed Dean -  _ kissed  _ him. 

Mother of the Sun... how had he been so stupid? 

And yet, try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. 

Dean's expression, so ready to be condemned and yet, still so fierce... Castiel hadn't been able to help himself. 

Because Dean wasn't apologetic about the ceremony - he'd looked imposing and proud as he cut into himself, as he bled for the people he loved. Castiel had been about to intervene before Sam had pulled him down; the younger Winchester had quietly explained the significance of the ritual to the paladin, who'd watched, awestruck. 

A leader who couldn't bleed for his people, Sam had said, was no leader worth following. Given how widespread the use of blood-magic was in the Witherlands, Castiel reflected, this wasn't a surprise at all, but an honor - ruling in the Witherlands, he was coming to realize, meant being a  _ part  _ of the people instead of sitting over them. 

He wondered what Charlie would think of the idea; the Regent, for all that Castiel knew, didn't care much for the people - but Charlie did. 

Sighing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking for a familiar face within the crowd. Eileen had given him thea gist of what to expect within the coming hours - a masked dance around the bonfire that would last well into the night, only to be broken at the graveyard where there would be singing. The highlight of the festival would be the eclipse tomorrow, after which the festival would come to a close. They would end with the planting of a pot of flowers over a grave. 

Each ritual had its own significance, Sam had said, though he'd been pulled away before he could say more. Castiel wondered what the masks were meant for as he followed the general rush towards the stalls on the periphery. The bonfire would burn through the night without stopping, he knew, but why wear masks to dance by it? 

"Get yer masks!" a somewhat familiar voice called out, and Castiel moved to join a long line in front of one of the stalls. People were laughing and giggling as they held masks in their hands, waving back to the man selling them. 

_ He was a Council Member, _ Castiel was startled to realize. A gruff voice and warm eyes peered out from a pale face dotted with a rough beard. 

"Masks here, idjits!" he called out. 

"Where's mine, Bobby?!" Jo yelled from the side and the old man rolled his eyes, raising a hand to her. 

"Come get it, girl!" he yelled back and Castiel snorted as he moved forward. Bobby's eyes turned to him inquisitively and he smiled uncertainly, opening his mouth to ask for his mask. 

"It's you," Bobby recognized in surprise. Casting a quick look at the crowd behind him, he lowered his voice, "What'll you have, then?" 

"Um.." Castiel hesitated, "I'm not entirely..."

"First time, eh?" he smiled gruffly. "Alrigh' then. Gimme a second." He stepped back, combing through the pile of masks that lay on the table behind him. They were all beautiful, carved with loving precision and painted carefully. A number of them were well-worn, and Castiel realized with a start, that they seemed to be reused. 

Smiling at the thrifty nature of the Fallen, he waited patiently. Bobby turned back to him a moment later, handing over a mask, and Castiel accepted it without question, digging into the pockets of his robes to pull out the few coins Sam had handed him earlier this morning. 

"Keep yer money, son," Bobby said. Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby beat him to it, "Just don't turn your back on us and I'll count it even."

He leveled the paladin with a harsh look. Castiel met his gaze and nodded, smiling. 

"I won't," he promised. 

"Good," Bobby said, looking beyond him, and Castiel took the dismissal for what it was, stepping away with his mask. He looked down at it, taking it in for the first time, and he felt a thrill shoot up his spine at the sight of it. It was a white mask, covering half his face, painted carefully and designed to look imposing. Running his thumb down the sides of it, Castiel looked up, searching for Sam or Eileen to explain the significance of this ritual to him. 

In the distance, he heard the sound of the music start up - it was a haunting, lilting tone that pierced through the night. He pushed his way through the crowd to the centre of the Square, feeling the excitement thrum through the mass of people gathered there. Three musicians sat close to the bonfire, playing the soft melodies. A small, dark woman was on the flute -  _ Tamara _ , Castiel recalled vaguely, from the castle staff. Next to her, her husband was whistling the pipe, both of them in perfect sync as the tunes lifted in spirit. A moment later, the third musician - a tall woman named Bella - joined in, pounding away at her drums to the beat of a lively song. 

"Well, well," came a familiar, oily voice behind him, and Castiel whirled around. The person in front of him - clearly a male from the look and sound of him - was already wearing his mask. Cold, grey eyes peered out from beneath it, watching Castiel hungrily, and he suppressed a shiver. 

"Hello, Your Grace," the man bowed low. Castiel's eyes narrowed at him; the voice sounded familiar, and he was addressing him by rank. Clearly this was a man who knew his identity, and given that the only ones who knew that were the Council Members, he had a sneaky suspicion as to who this was. 

"May I help you?" he asked stiffly. 

"You must put the mask on," the man said silkily. Castiel didn't say anything, but pulled the mask onto his face, securing it quickly. A feeling of comfort went through him at the weight of it on his face;  _ it didn't feel heavy _ , he noted with some surprise, almost surprised,  _ just as though he was wearing new glasses. _ Grateful for Bobby's craftsmanship, he faced the man in front of him - the mask, he had to admit, provided him with anonymity that was strangely comforting. He wondered if that was its purpose. 

"Would you do me the favor of a dance, then?" the man asked.

Castiel hesitated; he really didn't want to dance, especially if this was who he thought he was. But he also didn't know how to refuse him - what if he gave insult by mistake? This was a culture he didn't know, didn't entirely understand, even if he appreciated it; he didn't want to offend anyone. 

So he swallowed tightly, straightened his spine and nodded, holding his hand out. 

"I suppose," he allowed, "One dance wouldn't hurt." 

"Thank you, Your Grace," he murmured, taking his hand. A sharp, lilting tune played, and the man yanked Castiel close, grinning beneath his mask. The paladin stiffened, but bit back his retort, allowing himself to be swayed to the tune. 

"Do you know me, Milord?" he whispered silkily. "The mask... it may hide me, but you recognize me, don't you?" 

Castiel grit his teeth, ignoring his own discomfort. The man spun him around, and he followed the steps, watching the other couples carefully to ensure he didn't go wrong. It was similar enough to the Viridian waltz that he had no difficulty, and it occurred to him that this probably  _ was  _ an offshoot of it, given their common ancestry. 

"If you don't mind," Castiel muttered, side-stepping his partner. 

"That's the point of these masks, you know," the man said, "You never know who you could be dancing with... a commoner?" he grabbed Castiel's hand and pulled him close, "A Lord?" he whispered into his ears, and Castiel felt his stomach turn in revulsion, "Or..." he twirled him back out, a smirk playing beneath his mask. "Maybe it's the Dorcha you'd prefer, eh? I can be anything for you, sweetheart."

He bent down, about to kiss him, and Castiel bit his lower lip, gently pushing him away. Offence or not, he wasn't going to put up with this - he grunted, shaking his head. 

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," he said stiffly. 

"Am I?" the man smirked. Castiel opened his mouth to retort, when a familiar voice cut in. 

"Stop being a dick, Alistair." 

They both turned to see a man in a dark colored mask standing imposingly behind Alistair - Castiel congratulated himself mentally on recognizing him after all. The newcomer's face was hidden, but that build, those eyes glaring furiously behind the mask...

He'd know those eyes anywhere. 

_ Dean.  _

His heart began to race, and Castiel tilted his head in recognition, holding a hand out to him. 

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Alistair said silkily. "Come to save your prince?"

"He doesn't need saving," Dean retorted. "Not from you. Now scram."

"You can't-" the Council Member began hotly. 

"I believe," Dean cut in, "His Grace owes me a dance for the night. So if you don't mind..." he turned to Castiel, taking his hand and bowing low. 

"May I have this dance?" he asked softly. Castiel felt a smile curve the corner of his lips and he nodded. 

"Indeed," he agreed. 

Alistair grit his teeth, but having lost his chance, simply growled and slunk away, disappearing into the crowds. Castiel watching him go with a sigh, turning to Dean, who smiled at him. Around them, the melody changed from the happy jingle it had been so far into a softer, sweeter tune, and the paladin felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. 

He wasn't sure if that was because the night was getting colder despite the bonfire or if it was the searing heat of Dean's gaze. 

"Shall we?" the Dorcha gestured to the dance, and Castiel didn't answer but took his hand and led him back to the middle of it.  _ The steps had slowed as well, _ he noted, the couples simply swaying from one spot to the next, wrapped closely together. A hot flush lit his cheeks and he was glad for the mask that covered him. 

"Sorry about Alistair," Dean apologized as they swayed quietly. "He's... well, he can be a bit of a dick." 

"It's not your fault," Castiel told him. "And it's alright, I can handle myself." 

"I know," there was admiration in Dean's voice. "I've seen what you can do in a fight."

Castiel chuckled, "Well, Your Grace," he teased, "Maybe that'll teach you not to underestimate your opponent."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, none of my opponents have ever made me trip over my feet before - even in a mask."

Castiel's felt blood rush to his cheeks and he ducked his head, glad for the sudden spin that led him away from the Dorcha momentarily. When they rolled back together, he cleared his throat and looked up curiously, raising an eyebrow. 

"Dean?" 

"Hm...?"

"What do..." he hesitated, and then forged on, "What's the significance of the masks? And the fire?"

There was a long moment of silence, and Castiel's stomach swooped, worried that he'd somehow offended the Dorcha. He opened his mouth to apologize when Dean answered. 

"Fire, Cas," he said softly, his gaze far away, "burns through everything... it doesn't discriminate, doesn't choose who it wants to burn, just like Death itself." He looked back down, his green gaze blazing with conviction, "It can purify just as much as it can destroy. We burned Lucifer's body - we believed that the fire would purify him as it sent him beyond the Veil."

He spun them around, moving away from Castiel for a second. The paladin didn't say anything, understanding that he was working through something personal. 

"And the masks?" he asked gently. 

Dean shrugged. "Same idea... anonymity. You dunno who you're dancing with - could be anyone, really. Teaches you to let go of assumptions and prejudices - an equalizer."

"Like Death," Castiel finished quietly. 

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. Then his face curved into a small smile, "That's the idea, anyway. Not like we can't tell who's wearin' the mask."

Castiel felt his own lips curve into an answering smile. 

"Indeed," he murmured. 

The flute melody was fast fading, and at the end of it, he found himself swung back into Dean's arms, pressed against the Dorcha tightly. Thick arms banded about his back - he could feel the ridges of the skin of Dean's Mark burning hot against his waist, even through the layers of clothing, and his throat tightened. 

"Cas," Dean breathed. Castiel opened his mouth, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip, and those eyes darted down to follow the movement. He leaned his forehead against Castiel's, his breath hot against his skin - 

\- the sudden beat of the drum pulled them apart, random arms drawing them to different sides. 

Castiel started, heart thundering in his chest, his palms clammy. A red flush spread down his neck and he breathed in deeply, pushing away the sudden irritation at being interrupted and turned to the woman who'd pulled him away from Dean. It was a dark-haired lady, dancing excitedly, and Castiel saw that everyone had exchanged partners and were now moving around the fire in an uncoordinated manner, grinning and clapping wildly. 

Across him, he saw Dean doing the same, and with a sudden grin of his own, he shrugged, grabbing the woman's arms and joining in. 

The Féile was in full swing. 

*-*-*

Dean couldn't keep track of muca whole lot. It was the way of the Féile ; each moment slid into the next, filled with revelry and warmth and more fun than the Witherlands saw during the rest of the year. One moment, he was coughing up the dirtiest, roughest ale Ellen had brewed yet, and the next, he was dancing with Meg of all people, trading sarcastic quips with the surly woman. 

A part of him was disappointed that it wasn't Castiel in his arms again. By the Goddess, that had been a moment he held close to his heart - the paladin, swaying against him, looking up at him with those damned blue eyes, so powerful and yet so innocent. He'd had difficulty keeping his magic in check and he was sure Castiel had felt the Mark pulse against him as they danced together. 

Banishing the thought, Dean threw himself into the festival, moving around as his presence was demanded. It was the way of the Witherlands that the leader was public property, but during the Féile, he was more than that - he was their beloved friend, moving about them and laughing with them as they danced and sang...

...he remembered drinking with Benny around the bonfire, clapping arms and stepping along to a random tune...

...he remembered Eileen throwing herself at him, pushing her new ring in his face and he remembered laughing from joy, pulling her close and kissing her cheek gently...

...he remembered Sam hugging him, tears in his voice as he whispered his thanks in Dean's ears, and he remembered how his eyes had burned as hot as the bonfire that he'd lit as the Dorcha...

...he remembered the way Castiel's hot, flushed gaze had lingered on him through the night, fleetingly meeting his and then looking away, a blush on his face, visible beneath his mask...

...and he remembered wanting to kiss him, remembered thinking that Castiel, High Paladin of Viridia, was no longer just a crush - he was fast becoming more.

He was becoming everything Dean wanted - and could never have. 

The bonfire burned through the night, crackling merrily as the first rays of dawn painted the skies gold and a melting, golden pink. Ellen clapped, drawing Dean's attention where he was drinking with Benny, and he stood, almost stumbling. Benny caught him, winking quickly. 

"Careful, Chief," he muttered, steadying Dean. The Dorcha shot him a grateful look and got to his feet, walking to where she was waiting. 

"Time for the song?" he asked and she nodded, grabbing his arm and leading him towards the graveyard. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Jo pull a swaying Castiel to his feet, tucking herself beneath his arm and he blinked - clearly, he wasn't the only one who had become more than fond of the paladin. 

The entire procession made its way into the graveyard just beyond the Square - the night's revelry was dying down into a solemn silence as they walked together. The kids who'd been training for this all month were at the very forefront and Dean's heart swelled with pride as some of them bounded up to him. 

"Dee!" little Alex's voice distracted him and Dean chuckled, going on one knee and holding his arms out to her. She threw herself at him, hugging him tightly, and he lifted her up, throwing her into the air, just to hear her squeals. 

Her family had starved to death just this past winter and she'd stopped talking for a long time - it wasn't until Jody, the town healer, and Donna, her wife, took her in that she began to take an interest in the world again. 

"Lex!" 

Ben hurried forward, grinning sheepishly as Dean raised an eyebrow at him. He looked good, the Dorcha was glad to see, Lisa would be proud of the kind of man he was growing up to. 

"Sorry, she ran away from me," he said apologetically. "C'mon, Lex, you need to get in line!" he waved towards where the rest of the kids were moving in a single file towards the graveyard. 

She pouted in his arms, but Dean nudged her, bumping noses with her softly. 

"Go on, kiddo," he muttered. 

"You dance wimme later?" she demanded. Dean grinned, winking at her saucily and she giggled, clapping her hands. 

"For you, Milady," he muttered dramatically, "I shall do much, much more!" 

She patted his cheek and then kicked lightly, indicating she wanted to be put down, and so he bent down, setting her carefully on the ground. Ben held his hand out to her, and she ran to him, grabbing his palms with her much smaller one, and Dean's heart swooped as he watched the teenager's expression turn solemn. 

He remembered the same feeling from his childhood - it was why he'd pushed Sam to go with Jess, why he'd taken the Mark from him. 

Sighing against the memories, he looked up to see Castiel watching him with a strange expression on his face. He raised an eyebrow, but the paladin shrugged, looking away and Dean frowned. 

Before he could question it, though, they were at the graveyard, the kids bounding forward, and he put the thought out of his head. His feelings for Castiel could come later; right now, there was a ritual he needed to attend to. 

So he stepped forward, the crowd parting for him easily. The eclipse was well on its way, he knew - the Mark was buzzing brightly on his arm, the hum of his magic growing stronger with every passing hour. 

He stepped forward to the chosen grave, eyes widening when he saw whom the Council had chosen. The Dorcha wasn't ever or given a chance to pick the newly Fallen; he was expected to honor the lowliest of commoners and the richest of kings. 

But Dean hadn't expected to see Peter's name on the stone. His face whipped around to meet Benny's knowing eyes, and he swallowed hard, turning around to see a tearful Liz watching him, clutching her heavily pregnant belly tightly. His heart heavy, he bowed his head, running his hands over the stone carefully, tracing out the name of a loyal soldier and a brother-in-arms without hesitation.  _ This was, _ he realized,  _ the perfect send-off to him. _ Both he and his family deserved it. 

He turned back to where his people were watching carefully and raised his hands, waiting for them to fall silent. The quiet buzzing stopped, and they all faced him, similar expressions of solemn prayers on their lips. 

"Livin' here," he said, "in the Witherlands, is not an easy thing. We've lost so many over the years, but we haven't given up." 

He smiled slowly. "We honor our dead. And we live on, because it would an insult to their memory if we did not. So now, at the end of this Féile , let's show 'em how much we love 'em!" 

He motioned the kids forward, and behind them, Eileen, where she stood with the flowers for Dean to plant. She stepped close, placing a kiss on his cheek, and he smiled down at her, glad that his brother had found such a kick-ass girl, holding his hands out. She placed the pot in his palms and stepped back, tucking herself into Sam's side. 

The kids lined up at the side, little expressions solemn and so very shy. They were of all ages, the youngest of them barely four, upto a seventeen year old Krissy, who had her arms linked with Ben at the very front.

"For Life," Dean murmured quietly, his voice carrying across the whole crowd, "shall lead unto Death," he bent down, pulling the First Blade from its sheath again, holding it up to the skies. "And from Death," he whispered, placing his palms flat on the grave, "shall spring forth new Life."

The Mark glowed an angry crimson and Dean felt the buzz of magic as he motioned the kids forward. 

Ben opened his mouth, humming the haunting melody, and Krissy joined in, her own soft voice soaring across the entire graveyard, strong and proud. Little, tiny voices joined them, the sound of the next generation, ready to take on the world on, and Dean felt his eyes burn with the responsibility - his gaze swept over them all, the Mark burning and branding his skin as he took in each eager, solemn little face before him. 

How was he going to feed them and give them a new life? 

Troubled, he looked back down at the flowers in hands, sighing deeply. 

"Whence I came," Ben's voice was rough with tears, "thence I shall return."

Dean didn't need to be told that he was remembering his lost mother. His throat tightened at the memory, and his hands trembled as he carefully unearthed the flowers carefully. 

"For Life leads unto Death," Alex's voice was a hopeful hum that steadied Dean's grip. He dug into the earth on top of the grave; he didn't go deep enough that he was actually digging the grave up, but he chanced a quick look at where Castiel was watching, wondering if the paladin took this to be a desecration of sacred space. 

Ignoring the way his heart sank at the impassive expression on his face, he bent down, heart hammering, gently patting the ground. 

"And from Death shall spring new Life," Krissy’s husky voice was the balm he needed and Dean sighed, gently pushing the flower roots into the hole he'd just dug up. Just beneath him, he knew, lay Peter's body, rotting and withering - but even in death, the Dorcha knew, giving Life.  

"Ashes to ashes," the sound of Sam's strong voice joining the chorus shook him and Dean's head whipped up to see his brother joining the kids, a sad, broken expression on his face. He didn't need to be told that he was thinking of their dad, who'd drunk himself to death, and of their Mom, who'd died from a fire when they were kids. 

He was thinking of Jess, who'd abandoned him as soon as she'd learnt of his destiny, a Viridian who'd never truly understood him or his people. 

"And dust to dust," Jo’s voice was just as tired, and Dean felt his own eyes burning. His hands shook and the small spade slipped from his grip, tumbling to the ground - 

\- only to be caught by a strong, rough palm, holding it up carefully. 

Castiel smiled at him when Dean turned to him in surprise, bending down on one knee with him, reaching out to steady Dean's trembling hands. 

"Life and Death," he whispered, "Two sides of the same coin." 

Dean chuckled through his tears, nodding. "From Death, Life springs," he quoted, and then turned back to the grave, gently planting the flowers into the opened earth. Castiel moved forward hesitantly, and Dean let him, watching as he pulled something out from his robes. He started as the paladin held up a small seed, frowning at it.

And here, like this, squatting before the grave of a man who'd been a friend, in front of all of his people, watching Castiel as the rays of the newly born sun hit him, highlighting the dark brown in his hair and making his tanned skin glow golden, it struck Dean hard and fast. 

_ He was falling in love.  _

His magic jumped, buzzed, the Mark pulsing smugly against him, and he glanced down at it - it was glowing golden, he noted in surprise, eyes widening, not its usual crimson. 

Lucifer's Mark had been golden before it turned red and then dark, indicating the descent into madness. Since then, every Dorcha's Mark had glowed, at the most, a light red - never gold. 

Heart hammering, Dean looked back at Castiel, whose expression was just as perplexed. There was a tenderness in those eyes, soft and sweet, as he dropped the seed he was holding into the ground with the rest of the flowers, tilting his head with an adorable frown. 

Before Dean could say anything else, he leaned down, patting the ground slowly, and then gasping sharply - Dean's magic jumped in response, and he realized with a start what was happening. 

Castiel's magic was draining. 

He looked up; in the east, the sun had fully risen, slowly crawling across the horizon and into the skies. In the west, the moon still hung low, her shine diminished with the arrival of the sun, lost to the brightness that lit the Witherlands. 

_ The eclipse would be upon them soon, _ he guessed. Castiel's magic would slowly drain completely, until he was left defenseless as a newborn babe, and a sudden rush of protectiveness overtook Dean's heart. 

He reached out, wrapping his arm around the paladin and gently took his hand. Castiel shot him a surprised look, but Dean simply smiled, raising an eyebrow and meeting his probing gaze without flinching. An answering smile curved his own lips and he nodded. 

"Ashes to ashes," the kids sang behind them, the chorus slowly dying out, the last notes fading through the air. "Dust to dust." 

High Paladin and Dorcha reached out together and packed the dirt around the mound they'd dug up. The flowers stood tall and proud and tall, but that wasn't all. 

Castiel had dropped a seed inside. 

Before the Dorcha could say anything else, he'd reached over and taken the First Blade. He held it over his own hands, waiting for Dean's permission, who swallowed and nodded. His heart began to thud against his chest, and the Mark, so recently carved into, drummed on his arm. 

The Blade still had traces of Dean's blood at the tip - he'd wiped it down hastily after he'd cut into his skin earlier on. Castiel didn't say anything else, simply pricking his own finger so that a drop of blood appeared to coat the edge of the bone. 

"Life and Death," he murmured, "Life in Death." 

He bent down and carved the sigil for  _ growth  _ on the dirt before them. 

Dean's heart jumped; behind him, he heard the sharp intake of breath as the kids' song faded into silence. 

Wild, desperate hope clawed at his chest - how long had it been since something had truly  _ grown  _ in the Witherlands? Even this ritual had become a mockery of what it was meant to be; planting a seed on the dead's grave was a way of honoring them, of using what was left of them to bring forth new life. The seed was to draw its nutrients from the dead, nourishing them even after they'd become little more than dirt. 

_ Life from Death.  _

In the past few years, nothing had grown - it was why they now used already grown wildflowers to complete the ritual. 

But Castiel's magic was that of Life. Even now, even while it was fast draining away, he could breathe Life into the seed, make it grow - 

The crowd knew instinctively that something was happening; they didn't know his powers, didn't know his origins, but they weren't stupid - they sensed his magic, holding a collective breath together, waiting, waiting, _ waiting -  _

_ Nothing's happenin',  _ Dean thought, disappointment bowing his head low. His eyes were burning again, this time not in awe or reverence, but in pain and suffering, and he sighed. 

The Mark pulsed, once, twice, and then a third time. 

"That's it," Castiel breathed from next to him. "By the Sun, that's the answer!" 

"What?" Dean muttered, confused. 

"Look!" 

Dean's head whipped back to where they'd planted the seed. He squinted against the sun, trying to see, and then gasped, barely able to breathe at the sight. 

For there, looking so innocuous, so precious, was the green tendril of a plant, growing slowly, crawling its way through the earth. It reached for the open, warm Sun, and Dean let loose an elated yell at the sight of it. 

It was  _ grain  _ \- and it was growing.  _ Here _ . In the Witherlands. 

"Fuck," he stood, jumping to his feet.  _ "Fuck!" _

Castiel looked up at him, his own eyes brimming with tears, and Dean pulled him to his feet, wrapping an arm around him and crying unashamedly. 

"It's growing!" he cried, "The  _ crop _ ! A new Life!" 

For a second, there was nothing but silence as the cold morning wind whistled its way through the Witherlands -

\- and then the crowd roared, erupting into shouts and cries of pure delight. Each deep-throated yell, each rough voice burnt with tears, shaking as the Fallen reached stomped to each other, hugging and crying without pause. 

"What-what?" Dean blabbered, "It's growin', Cas, you  _ grew  _ it,  _ you  _ grew it, you-" 

"I didn't," he shook his hand, his whole form trembling in Dean's arms, "Not by myself, Dean, but I know how - we  _ can  _ grow things now, we can do it, I figured it out -"

"You're a marvel," Dean whispered, throat tightening, "You, Castiel, are fucking  _ amazing _ ." 

And before he knew what he was doing, he'd pulled the paladin close, touching resting his forehead against his, breathing against him. He looked down, waiting for the other man to push him away, bracing for the rejection, but it never came. Instead, Castiel wrapped his own arms around Dean's neck, smiling shyly, and that was it - Dean was a fucking goner. 

He smashed their mouths together, kissing Cas like his life depended on it. His lips were chapped from the cold, but that didn't stop Dean from licking across the seam of them, savoring the taste of ale and strawberries that lingered from Cas's last meal at Liz's stall. Cas made a tiny little noise, whimpering against him, and Dean wanted to hear it again, yanking the man closer, holding him tight. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat broke them apart, and Dean scowled, licking his lips slowly. Castiel pushed himself away gently, but he took Dean's hand in his, winking, shyly and Dean felt his heart soar. 

Maybe he wasn't alone in this after all. 

He turned his head to see which idiot had interrupted them and snorted at the sight of Sam and Eileen standing there, identical smirks on their faces. 

Cas dropped his hands and rushed forward to Eileen, picking her up and twirling her around excitedly. Sam raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything as she yelped and hugged him back. 

"Cas?" she asked confusedly as he pulled back. 

"I figured it out, Eileen!" he cried. "I know how to make the spell work, I know what we can do!" 

She went still for a long moment, and then, surprising all of them, broke out into tears, pushing past Cas to throw herself into Sam's arms. 

Dean watched with a growing sense of warmth as his brother pulled her against him, tucking her head beneath his chin. Jess had been a tall girl, he recalled, but Eileen was much shorter - she looked tiny against Sam, who was nothing if not a giant. And yet, somehow, they were perfectly matched, Sam himself sniffling into Eileen's hair as his eyes met Cas's over her dark head. 

"Thank you, Cas," he whispered. Cas smiled and offered his signature head-tilt, and Dean's heart lifted. 

He moved to wrap an arm around the paladin, who shot him a soft smile. He tucked himself into Dean's side, sighing gratefully, and the Dorcha was surprised to realize that he was trembling, his form shaking. 

"You alright?" he muttered. Castiel shrugged. 

"The eclipse," he replied quietly. "I'm losing strength."

"Well, take some of mine, then," Dean offered. Castiel smiled shyly. 

"I wish I could," he sighed, "But you need your strength... your people-"

"Rider ahoy!" Benny's loud call cut him off and they turned as one to where the crowd was beginning to quiet down. 

Dean's eyes narrowed and he dragged Cas along with him, the two of them making their way through the throngs of the Fallen to the edge of the graveyard. 

The Dorcha inhaled sharply as the figure came into clearer focus, riding hard and slowing to a trot in front of them. It was Mick, one of Benny's castle guards. He'd been assigned to the borders to lie in wait for Cas's friend, and he'd decided to skip the festival to continue doing that, despite Dean's insistence that he didn't have to, that he could set up a magical perimeter. 

Behind him, a blonde man, soaking wet and dirty-haired, holding a bag close to his chest, glared at them all angrily. The moment Mick's horse slowed to a stop, he slid off of it and strode forwards into the graveyard, ignoring the questioning looks from everyone else. 

Castiel went stiff in Dean's arms and pulled away. The Dorcha looked down in surprise, but the paladin refused to meet his gaze, expression closing off and becoming cold - it was the same suspicious look he remembered from the first time they met, and Dean felt his heart sink. 

The blonde man marched up to Cas and thrust the bag into his hands, glaring at the paladin.

"You, Castiel," he growled. "have a crap ton of explaining to do. Start talking." 

"Hello to you too, Balthazar," Cas sighed. 

And Dean realized with a start that this was who he'd been waiting for - the messenger with Samandriel's caduceus.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10**

Castiel glanced over at Dean, trying to gauge his expression as the two of them rode back to the castle. The Dorcha hadn't said anything since Balthazar's arrival, simply pulling the blonde man to the side and insisting that they talk privately. Castiel had agreed instantly - even if the Fallen had seen him grow that plant, he had still used blood magic to do it. His identity as a Viridian, and a paladin remained obscure, though Benny had eyed him suspiciously and Mick's lips were pursed at the sight of Balthazar. Castiel wondered what Dean had told them when he'd sent them on patrol - he didn't think the Dorcha would've given his identity away without his permission, but he couldn't see what else he might've said to keep the constant patrols going. 

"Where exactly are we going?" Balthazar called out from behind them. He was riding on Sam's horse, seated behind the tall man, who simply rolled his eyes. 

"To the castle," he answered with a tired sigh. Castiel twisted his neck to look at Dean, who still hadn't said anything.

A few moments later, they were sliding into the castle stables, the Dorcha jumping off quickly and tying Impala's reins up before he led them inside. 

"I see that, you lumbering moron," Balthazar retorted as he and Sam followed. "What I don't get is why. Castiel," he snapped, "Why am I here? Why are you here? The Witherlands isn't exactly-"

"Your grand palace, we know," Dean cut him off harshly. "But shut your yappin', cuz this all you're gettin' now." 

He turned to Castiel, ignoring the sputtering Balthazar, and held out his hand. 

"The caduceus," he said shortly. "I'll go make the preparations. The eclipse will begin in about an hour; may as well do it then, my powers will be the strongest." 

"Po-powers?" Balthazar spat, "Caduceus?" He whirled around to glare at Dean, grabbing the bag from Castiel's hands and holding it tight. "You're not getting your dark hands on this, you little weasel-" he snarled. 

"Balthazar," Castiel said quietly. "Hand over Samandriel's caduceus to him. Please." 

Balthazar's glare moved to the High Paladin. "To-to him?" he exclaimed. "Have you lost it, Your Grace? He's one of the  _ Fallen _ . He's a Necromancer." 

"He's also the only one that can speak to your dead friend," Dean snapped back, "And he's standin' right here."

Castiel sighed, shooting the Dorcha an annoyed look. 

"Dean, please," he muttered. Dean looked startled and then grumbled, falling silent, and Castiel smiled at him gratefully before turning to Balthazar. 

"I'm the High Paladin," he said gravely, inserting every bit of command into his voice that he could. "Hand over the caduceus to Dean at once." 

"You aren't actually," Balthazar retorted. "The Regent has stripped you of your title in absentia - you're traitor to the Crown, along with Her Highness."

There was a tight bitterness to his voice and Castiel's eyes narrowed at him, ignoring the sharp intakes of breath he heard from Sam and Dean. 

"If you believed that," he said quietly, "then why did you come? Why did you answer the message?"

Balthazar's features were troubled and he suddenly deflated, sighing. 

"I dunno," he said, looking away. "I can't..." he hesitated, "I can't believe that Charl- I mean," he glanced at the Winchesters before correcting himself, "that  _ Her Highness _ could do something like this." 

Castiel felt a smile curve the corner of his lips as he tilted his head in acquiescence. 

"But," Balthazar continued, "I also can't believe that you're trusting the Fallen." 

His tone turned accusing, but Castiel held firm, holding up a hand to Dean's sputtering grumbles and Sam's sharp look. 

"Balthazar," he said firmly. "You've come all this way - you're  _ in  _ the Witherlands. At the very least, please show them some respect." 

Balthazar's lips tightened but he didn't respond. 

"And if you've trusted me at all," Castiel beseeched, "Hand over the caduceus. We need answers, and I believe Dean's the only one who can get them for us."

"With Necromancy?" he sounded disbelieving. "I'm all for proving Charlie innocent, but you want to turn to dark magic to do so?" 

" _ Charlie _ sent me here," Castiel declared. "Just before she was captured. And she believes - as do I," he added, offering Dean a quick glance, "That it isn't Necromancy itself that is dark, but the use of it. If you're loyal to Charlie, if you believe that I mean her no harm - then hand the bag over to Dean and come with me."

For a long, quiet moment, Balthazar didn't say anything, simply staring at Castiel in surprise. The High Paladin stood his ground, meeting his probing gaze unflinchingly, and it was the bodyguard who turned away finally, grumbling under his breath. 

"Alright then," he muttered. "It's on your head." 

He held the bag out to Dean, who stomped over and grabbed it from him. The two of them glared at one another, and behind them, Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. 

"Much obliged," Dean snarked. 

"Don't lose it," Balthazar told him irritatedly. "His grandmother's waitin' for it so she can bury him with it." 

"Missouri hasn't buried Alfie yet?" Castiel asked in surprise. Balthazar's gaze turned sorrowful and he shook his head. "Too much has happened since you left, Your Grace," he said quietly. 

"Tell me," Castiel demanded. Balthazar opened his mouth to answer, and then glanced over at the Winchesters, falling quiet. 

"Go talk to him, Cas," Sam spoke up suddenly. "We'll get the preparations ready for the ceremony." 

"I-uh-" Castiel cleared his throat. He looked up at Dean and their eyes met; he could still feel the ghost of the kiss on his lips, feel Dean's rough touch against his skin. Had it really been less than just an hour ago? 

"Dean, I-" he began. 

The Dorcha's expression softened and he offered Castiel a small smile. 

"It's okay, Cas," he said sincerely. "Go figure your shit out. Come back out to the arena in an hour; we'll perform the ceremony there."

"Thank you," Castiel said softly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Balthazar stare at him in open curiosity, but he ignored him, instead watching as Sam and Dean stepped back and left them alone. 

They were standing in the main halls, and Castiel sighed, leading Balthazar in further, to a secluded corner where they couldn't be overheard. 

"What's goin' on?" he asked and Castiel motioned for him to be quiet, quickly glancing this way and that. The castle was deserted, of course, since everyone was at the Féile. He pulled out his caduceus and traced the sigil for  _ privacy  _ in the air, finally allowing himself to relax. 

"Tell me what's going on at the Capital," he ordered. 

Balthazar scowled. "Not until you tell me why we're in the Witherlands and trusting Lucifer's descendants," he demanded. 

"Balthazar," Castiel said firmly. "This is State business, I can't-"

"I'm just a bodyguard, then?" he shot back. 

"I'm trying to protect you!" the paladin snapped. "If the Regent were to find out-"

"I've already snuck out the castle, stolen property that was considered to be evidence and am consorting with sworn enemies to the Crown," Balthazar interrupted tersely. "I hardly doubt the Regent is going to offer me pardon at this point." 

It was Castiel's turn to stare at him and Balthazar didn't look away. The paladin sighed, admitting to himself that it would be nice to have an ally from home right about now. Nice as the Fallen were, Balthazar  _ knew  _ Charlie and cared for her - he understood Castiel's urgency in a way none of the people in the Witherlands could. 

"This is dangerous business," he warned. 

"I know," Balthazar nodded. 

"If you had to choose," Castiel said quietly, "Between working with the Fallen, accepting them truly, to save Charlie... or being safe under the Regent's reign...?" 

For a long moment, Balthazar was silent. He looked around him, taking in the castle, rubbing his arms, and for the first time, Castiel realized how cold the man must be, having crossed over from a warm Viridian summer into the cold Witherlands. 

"She isn't just my princess, Castiel," he finally replied. "She's my friend. And I trust you - I trust  _ her _ ."

A smile split Castiel's face and he sighed, nodding. "Very well," he agreed. "I shall tell you everything. But first," he added, "Give me news of what's happening. How is she? Has the Regent hurt her? Is she alright?" 

Balthazar shrugged, his expression pinched. "I haven't been allowed to see her," he admitted. "No one has. It..." he trailedd off with a sigh. "It isn't good, Your Grace." 

"What happened?" Castiel repeated, a little desperately. By the  _ Sun _ , if he'd been sitting here empty-handed while Charlie was being hurt, if he'd...

"She's not hurt," Balthazar said quickly. "I don't think, not yet. But things spiralled out of control after you vanished." 

"How?" 

"Marv declared that  _ you  _ led Charlie astray," he said. "Samandriel was  _ your  _ apprentice, and he brought dark magic into the Inner Sanctum on your orders, and Charlie, still a teenager, was naïve enough to trust you." 

"And because I conveniently vanished, I look guilty," Castiel murmured. "Damn it." 

Balthazar nodded. "He's holding her in the dungeons until she can prove that she isn't under your spell any longer. It's for 'her own protection' apparently," he winced and Castiel's eyes narrowed at him. 

"And even knowing that, you followed the instructions I sent you?" he asked sharply. 

"I know you, Your Grace," the bodyguard answered calmly. "And I knew the facts - Samandriel was on a mission for Her Highness, and you knew nothing about it. Charlie didn't trust me with the details, but she did tell me that much." 

He leveled him with a challenging look. " _ I _ called you that night, remember?" 

Castiel sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. 

"Thank you," he said. 

"Now tell me what the bloody blazes is going on," he demanded. 

Castiel hesitated, and then forged on. "The Regent," he said, "Could be a murderer." 

"What?!" 

"Charlie found a missive he'd received years ago - the letter was proof of the fact that Queen Gertrude was killed by no Fallen, but a man that Marv himself sent." 

"By the Sun-!"

"And," Castiel continued wearily, "Charlie sent Samandriel undercover to gather evidence of this fact. Both of them were utterly reckless, if they'd come to  _ me _ , if she'd told me as soon as she found it-" he cut himself off, feeling that familiar anger, the familiar grief for his lost apprentice burn his throat. 

Balthazar reached out to squeeze his shoulder lightly. "It wasn't your fault, Your Grace," he comforted. "And neither was it theirs. Blame only Samandriel's killer." His brow furrowed, "It was the Regent, I presume?" he asked. 

Castiel rubbed the wetness out of his eyes and shrugged. "I'm not entirely certain," he admitted. "And I do not want to make false accusations. Charlie..." he sighed, "Before she was arrested, she ordered me to come here, speak to Alfie's spirit - he told her he found something, but he was killed before he could tell her what it was." 

Balthazar pursed his lips and hesitated before saying, "And you're  _ certain  _ this is not dark magic?" he asked pointedly. "Raising the dead, speaking to them... it was what tore Michael and Lucifer apart, what destroyed an entire race." 

Castiel didn't reply immediately, instead crossing over to the windows and staring outside it. These windows faced the same side as the library; they could see the training arena through them. Outside, Sam and Dean were drawing something on the ground with white chalk - it was a pentagram, Castiel saw, a symbol that he'd been taught evoked evil all through his life. 

A flash of golden light caught his eyes, and Castiel's attention was drawn to the circlet that sat on Dean's brow, even as the Dorcha laughed at something Sam called out. His face was carefree for the briefest of moments, and in that instant, watching him with his brother, Castiel knew the truth. 

_ He was in love with Dean Winchester.  _

Heart heavy with the thought - though he suspected that a part of him had always known it - he turned back to Balthazar and shook his head. 

"I've been here for almost two weeks now," he said softly. "I've seen the Fallen laugh and cry, hurt and maim, live and let live just as any Viridian would, Balthazar. They're no more dark than you or I." 

"But Lucifer-"

"-went dark because of his choices," Castiel interrupted. "He used Necromancy to  _ hurt  _ others instead of aid them." 

"Surely, so many generations can't have been wrong!" Balthazar protested, "We've been taught that Necromancy is dark-"

"When I was in that Sanctum," Castiel said quietly, "I felt dark magic. It was evil, it was corrupt - in all my time here, I've felt nothing even  _ remotely  _ close to that." 

He leveled the bodyguard with a stern look. "I understand that it can't be easy to overcome years of conditioning and prejudice," he muttered, "but if you cannot trust your instincts... trust me. Please." 

Balthazar remained silent for so long that Castiel thought he was going to deny him and turn his back on them. But the bodyguard surprised him yet again, sighing and rolling his eyes. 

"Fine," he huffed. "I'll take your word for it. You and Charlie," he grumbled, "Can't last a day without gettin' into trouble." 

Surprised but pleased, Castiel smiled. 

"Thank you, Baz," he said sincerely. Balthazar rolled his eyes in response. 

"Yeah, yeah," he said gruffly. "Now shall we go see what your boy toys have come up with?" there was a knowing glint in his eye and Castiel flushed. 

"They aren't my boy toys," he said, waving his caduceus to cancel the privacy spell. Balthazar opened his mouth, no doubt to tease him further, but Castiel stumbled at that moment, limbs suddenly feeling heavy and tight. 

The bodyguard raced forward, catching him just in time before he fell to the ground. 

"What's wrong, Cassie?" he asked worriedly, slipping into the old nickname that he'd given him long before Castiel had taken the post of High Paladin and he'd just signed on as the princess's personal guard. 

"The eclipse," he gasped, "it's close. And it's draining my strength." 

He looked down; as he'd suspected, Dean had the pentagram ready, Sam standing to the side with a satisfied grin on his face. He turned to the skies, noticing the darkening of the sun, and nodded to Balthazar. 

"Help me get to the arena," he muttered. 

"Cassie, you're vulnerable right now-" he began. 

"We don't have time, Baz," he cut him off. "Dean's at his strongest, he's going to summon Alfie now. And I'm the only one that knows what to ask of him - I need to do this." 

Balthazar huffed. "Alright, you stubborn fool," he said, throwing one of Castiel's arms over his shoulders and supporting his weight. "But if you get yourself killed, I'm gonna be very pissed," he warned. 

Castiel felt the ghost of a smile curve his lips, every second sapping him of his strength and his magic. 

"Duly noted," he murmured, turning his gaze to the skies, welcoming the power of the moon. 

It was time to summon his apprentice back from the dead. 

*-*-*

“Looks good to me,” Sam remarked as Dean straightened up from finishing the pentagram. He stretched, popping his back with a grunt and nodded, acknowledging his brother’s statement. 

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Should be enough to do what we gotta.” 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was serious, but the Dorcha avoided meeting his piercing gaze, knowing exactly what he wanted to talk about. He wasn’t interested - it was none of Sam’s business anyway. 

“Sam,” he mocked. 

“Dean, you gotta-” he began. 

“Cas and his buddy are gonna be out here soon,” he cut him off. “Get the candles and the matchsticks, we need to move.” He turned his gaze up to the skies; the Mark hadn’t stopped glowing since they’d left the Square. It buzzed angrily against his arm, indicating the approaching eclipse. 

He wondered how Cas was doing - the paladin had stumbled in his arms, already draining out. With the eclipse just minutes away, he must be running on fumes right about now. 

Moon’s bitch, he wished his heart wasn’t sinking just at the thought of Cas. For a few glorious moments, he’d held him in his arms, felt his breath hot against his own and believed - he’d seen a future. 

He didn’t know what was to become of that future now. 

Sam sighed, accepting that his brother was not going to share, and moved away, mumbling under his breath. Dean ignored him, staring up at the tower where he knew Cas was, chatting with his friend. He refused to admit that he was worried; he was… just concerned, is all. Swallowing hard, he turned back, taking the candles Sam handed out to him, placing one at each point of the star. 

He slapped his palms together when they were done, opening his mouth to call out to Sam when the sound of a smug voice distracted him. 

“So we all set then?” Balthazar asked and Dean turned around to see his supporting Castiel as the two of them walked towards where the brothers were standing. He was smirking at them, but the Dorcha ignored him and focused instead on Cas, who was pale and breathing hard, as though he’d run a marathon. 

“You okay, Cas?” he asked worriedly. 

Cas offered him a pained smile. “I’ll be fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “The eclipse is almost upon us.” 

Balthazar snorted, “Thanks for stating the obvious, Milord,” he snarked. Castiel rolled his eyes, but didn't chastise him - clearly, whatever station the man held, his relationship with the paladin was friendly. 

“We’re ready to go,” Sam approached them with a guarded look on his face. Balthazar’s expression thinned and he turned to Cas again. 

“You’re sure, Cassie?” he asked seriously. Castiel patted his arm gently. 

“We must do what has to be done, Baz,” he said softly. Balthazar sighed in response and stepped away; Castiel stumbled, but held a hand out to Dean when he rushed forward to help him. 

“No,” he snapped. “I’m fine.” 

Dean felt hurt prick the back of his neck, but he kept his expression impassive, holding his hand out for the apprentice’s caduceus. 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said coolly. Castiel’s eyes flew to his and he thought he saw a flash of regret before it vanished. He straightened himself up, holding his back stiff - though Dean could see that it took great effort to do so - and pulled out the caduceus from inside, handing it to him.

This looked quite a bit different from Cas’s own caduceus, Dean saw. Where the High Paladin’s was long and slim, this was much shorter, and much thicker around the middle. The wings weren’t as sleek either, looking heavy, more like that of a barn owl’s wings. The Viridian insignia that shone so clearly on Cas’s caduceus was significantly absent as well. 

“You guys might wanna step back,” Dean muttered. “Whatever happens,” he turned to Cas, expression softening, “Do not interfere.”

With a nod to Sam, he walked into the pentagram, moving straight to the very centre of it. Bending down, he placed the caduceus on the ground, and then raised his hands, the Mark humming against his skin. 

“How will I know when Alfie is here?” Cas called. 

Dean craned his neck to look at him one last time; he refused to admit that he was terrified. Once Cas saw him use his magic, once he realized how much of Dean’s life was devoted to the art of Death…

Would he walk away, like Jess had walked away from Sam? 

Banishing the thought, he answered, “You’ll know, trust me.” 

Turning back, he breathed in deeply, offering one last prayer.  _ Please _ , he muttered quietly; he didn't say anything more, but the Mark pulsed once in response and then went back to simply buzzing on his skin. 

And then the sky went dark. 

It was magnificent. Behind him, he was dimly aware of Balthazar calling out Castiel’s name. For a second, his heart leapt, worried, before he pushed it away - here, he couldn't be anything but the Dorcha, anything but the Necromancer that he was born to be, that he’d been Chosen to be. 

The new moon rose, full and round in all her glory. As though on cue, the Mark on his arm began to burn, the ache splitting his skin apart as though someone was searing a hot iron into him. Dean welcomed it, ignoring the way his eyes filled, ignoring the tears as they ran down his cheek - this was his burden, his duty, and he’d chosen it out of his own free will so Sam wouldn’t have to bear it. 

Dean breathed in deeply, giving himself over to his magic without hesitation. It jumped, buzzed, and he called on it, falling deep within himself and allowing magic to take him where it would. Behind his eyes he could see it - the Veil, the thin ring of gold that hid beyond the moon’s dark shadow, only for him and his spirit to cross. 

In the skies, the moon moved, crawling towards the sun, and hiding it from view.  _ She’s beautiful, _ he thought awestruck.

For a moment, there was a disorienting sensation of nothingness and everythingness… he wasn’t here, but he was everywhere, because Death didn’t discriminate, Death didn’t care where or when he was, just that he  _ was _ . 

“I honor thee,” he breathed, humbled by the sense of how small he was. In the vastness of the cosmos, he was a tiny speck of matter, so insignificant, and yet, his worries, his suffering, his pain… they were all the most powerful force the universe would ever encounter. 

“I pledge myself in thy service,” he whispered, knowing - and not knowing - whom he was speaking to. The Mark pulsed in acknowledgement, and he felt his own lips curve in an answering smile. 

“I call thee forth!” he cried suddenly. “Samandriel Alford, I name thee, and I call thee forth - come to if I have been deserving, and I beseech thee, speak to me.”

The Sun was just a thin ring of fire around the darkness that was the moon; Life and Death converged in that instant, the Veil the thinnest it would ever be in this plane of existence. And Dean grabbed the First Blade that hung at his side and drove the weapon, carved out of a donkey’s bone, straight into the centre of the Mark, a loud yell of pain escaping his lips. 

“Come forth!” he thundered.

Five candles, each at one end of the pentagram, lit up, the flames dancing merrily despite the cold winds, lit by the power of his magic. A cloud of thick black smoke blew into the circle, heading straight for the man in the middle, who held his arms open out, mouth open in a feral snarl as he welcomed the spirit of Samandriel Alford into himself. 

And then, Dean Winchester, Dorcha of the Witherlands, was no more. 

*-*-*

The back of Castiel’s neck prickled as Dean turned to him mechanically - except it was very clearly  _ not  _ Dean. 

The Dorcha’s face was pale and sunken, his expression absolutely dead. The Mark on his arm was glowing the same molten gold as the thin ring of sun visible in the sky, bloodied crimson by the Blade that pierced through both bone and skin. But it wasn’t that which drew the paladin’s attention - it was his eyes. 

Castiel’s heart stuttered at the sight of those eyes; once a lovely, bright green, they were now completely black. Not even the pupils were visible, hidden behind a corona of cold power that he could not even begin to comprehend. 

The High Paladin knew then - he wasn’t looking at the man he’d fallen in love with, but the Dorcha, a vehicle for Death to speak through. 

He was holding the spirit of Samandriel.

_ Alfie… _

Castiel’s every step was shaky, but he forced himself forward, heart hammering in his chest, his palms going sweaty at the thought of facing the apprentice he’d failed. 

“Hello Samandriel,” he whispered. 

“Castiel,” Dean answered. “Master.” 

He wanted to yell at him to not call him that; he’d failed as his Master, failed to teach him, failed, failed,  _ failed -  _

Dean’s expression suddenly softened. “It wasn’t your fault,” he insisted. Castiel blinked; he hadn’t expected Samandriel to sense his pain. 

“Even so,” he murmured, “I am sorry.”

A moment of silence passed by, the truth shimmering between them like the sun’s corona did in the darkened skies above. 

“You want to know about what I found,” Dean said finally. Castiel nodded. 

“Charlie is in trouble,” he answered. “I must have the whole truth.” 

“And you would turn to dark magic to do this?” Dean’s voice turned sharp, those black eyes glaring into his own. Castiel didn't look away, sensing that this was a test. 

“The magic of Death isn’t dark,” he retorted. “And while I never explicitly taught you that, I  _ did  _ allow the misconception to persevere. For that, I am sorry.” 

He bowed his head low in submission - he himself hadn’t complete believed it, hadn’t openly discriminated against the Fallen, but, he was coming to realize, he had held himself out to be the paragon of virtue in comparison to them. 

“But,” he continued, “For her… for my family, and for my people, I  _ would  _ turn to dark magic if I must. As long as it’s only my soul that is sullied and no one else comes to harm - I would do it.” 

An angry, bittersweet smile curved Dean’s lips. 

“Magic that does not harm another, that is performed for the sake of another’s good,” he said, sounding wise and ancient, “Is, by its own nature, light… I will tell you, Master, what I found.” 

He paused, turning his dark gaze to the skies - Castiel wasn’t surprised that he could look straight into the two disks hanging low against the horizon. Not even Sam could, but Dean -  _ Samandriel  _ \- did, and without flinching at that. 

“There are paladins in the castle involved, Master,” he said quietly. “A good number of them.” 

Castiel’s blood ran cold. “Wh-what?” he sputtered. 

“Marv had Gertrude killed,” he continued, “and then blamed the Fallen people in order to shut the borders down.”

“But why?” Castiel asked desperately. “Why would he do that?  _ Why _ , Samandriel?” 

“Because,” Dean said simply, “He found a prophecy.” 

“A… prophecy?” 

“I found a scroll in the Regent’s chamber. It was a painting - of a redheaded Queen, her face turned away as she bowed to a dark-haired man with a caduceus,” Dean paused, staring straight at Castiel, “And a man with the Mark on Cain on his arm,” he finished. 

“This… can't be,” Castiel breathed. “It…” 

“The man with the Mark - the Dorcha - and the High Paladin both blessed the Queen with the First Blade and the Sword. And in the far end, the Regent stood in chains, surrounded by a darkness that was eating at his soul.” 

“You’re saying that… By the Sun! Marv wanted to close the borders so that Dean and I wouldn’t crown Charlie?” Castiel realized. 

“Not necessarily,” Alfie answered. “No faces were visible, except that of the Regent’s… I think he thought the Queen was Her Highness’s mother and that was why he had her killed. It wasn’t the first time that he tried - I found scrolls he’d sent, missives to a number of assassins… Her Majesty was poisoned when she was a nursing Her Highness - that was why she was too sick to accompany her to the borders when she was supposedly killed by a Necromancer.” 

“He wanted to excise the entire line,” Castiel whispered. 

Dean nodded. “He believes the prophecy thwarted, especially with the borders shut down permanently.” 

“But why?” the paladin demanded. “Why go to all that trouble? How does Marv know that this is a prophecy?” 

“I don't know, Master,” Dean sounded troubled. “All I know is that he hides those scrolls in his chambers. I sent word to Her Highness when I came upon them. I thought that the Sanctum was the safest place to talk since nobody with dark magic would be able to enter it - it was under  _ your  _ protection.” 

“Marv…  _ he  _ brought the darkness into my Altar,” Castiel cried. “That foul magic I felt that day… it was  _ him _ !” 

“He killed me, Master,” Dean whispered. 

“The paladins,” Castiel said sharply. “Which ones are involved?” 

“I’m not entirely certain,” Samandriel replied. “I only know of a few for certain.” 

“Names, Alfie,” he demanded. “I will weed them out; I will have no dark sorcerers in my command.” 

“Bartholomew,” came the prompt reply. “Raphael. Uriel and Ezekiel. Ephraim, Ion, Ingrid and Hester. Of others, I can’t be certain.” 

Castiel’s felt his chest tighten with remorse - he’d worked with all of them personally, trained with Uriel and Ezekiel since childhood. How had he not seen the darkness within them? 

Dean turned back to the skies, eyeing the sun critically. Suddenly, Castiel realized that it was much less darker than before, the moon already having begun her crawl away from the sun to allow it to shine again.  _ His own limbs felt stronger as well, _ he realized with a start - the eclipse was almost over. 

“My time draws near,” Dean said. “Is there anything else you wish of me?” 

“Samandriel,” Castiel whispered past the lump in his throat. “Alfie, my boy…” for a second, his entire body sagged with the shame of having failed him, with the loss of an apprentice he hadn’t realized had become more than just a student - he was a brother. 

“I  _ am  _ sorry,” he said. 

“Tell my Grandmother,” Dean answered. “Tell her I died valiantly. And Master?” he glared at Castiel who straightened. “Bring my killers to justice.” The hardness in his voice was strange to associate with his soft-hearted apprentice, but the paladin nodded determinedly. 

“I will do everything in my power to do so, Samandriel,” he vowed. “The Regent will pay for this… and you,” he gulped, “Will be honored as you deserve.” 

“Then I bid you farewell, Castiel,” the spirit of Samandriel Alford said. 

“Farewell,” Castiel whispered. 

Dean’s Mark glowed and he let loose a loud, agonizing yell - the black smoke from earlier punched itself out of the Dorcha, disappearing into the clouds, even as the sun remerged fully from behind the new moon. 

Light suddenly burned against Castiel’s eyes and he threw his arms up instinctively, noting how the trembling in his limbs had stilled. The worst had passed; he would still be weakened for a day or two until he regained his strength, but he could feel his magic again, feel it buzzing a low hum under his skin. 

A low groan caught his attention and he squinted through half-closed eyes to see Dean curled up in the center of the pentagram where he still lay. Blood bubbled from his arm, flowing crimson on to the ground, and Castiel realized with a sense of growing horror that the First Blade was still stuck through his Mark, having pierced through bone and flesh. 

Before he could do anything though, Sam was already there, marching into the circle briskly. He wrapped an arm around his brother holding him up, and Castiel heard him whisper comfortingly as tears streaked down the side of Dean’s face. 

“Ready?” he heard Sam ask. Dean didn’t answer, simply nodding in response. 

A second raw-throated yell escaped his lips as Sam yanked the Blade out of his arm, sounding utterly agonizing. Castiel winced, and stumbled forward to offer help; Dean could  _ die  _ from the excessive blood loss, he cursed.

But Sam held up a stone immediately - it glowed a soft golden and Castiel saw Dean breathe from it deeply, holding it close to his face. The smell of wild berries drifted over to where the paladin was standing wide-eyed, and he realized with a start what it was.

_ A Healing Stone.  _

Viridia had a few that he’d made the occasional use of as High Paladin. There were rare, not often used because they took up more energy than most sorcerers had to spare. Sam’s hands, Castiel saw, were trembling from the effort, his face turning paler by the second, but he didn't back down, waiting till Dean’s shaking had stilled and his breathing had slowed to normal. 

“I’m good, Sammy,” he said hoarsely, pushing his brother away. The wound on his arm had closed, though the Mark looked scarred, the ridges raised, still glowing a light golden color against the pale whiteness of Dean’s skin. 

“Like hell you are,” Sam sighed, sinking against the elder Winchester. But he didn’t protest as Dean wrapped an arm around him, supporting his weight. Together, the brothers rose and face the High Paladin, who was still watching them apprehensively. 

“Well,” Dean grinned wearily, “That was fun.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 11**

"Cas, you can't just go racing off on your own!"

The High Paladin ignored Dean's cry of protest as he stomped into the castle, Balthazar following him, strangely quiet. He was still feeling weak, but he paid his body no mind - he didn't have the  _ time  _ to be powerless. 

Charlie needed him. 

Marv could kill her at any moment - he'd already killed her mother without remorse. 

The thought made his step stutter and Castiel grit his teeth, refusing to stop. Marv needed to be brought to justice and as the High Paladin who protected the Crown, it was his job to do it. 

"Cas!" Dean protested. "Cas, stop, dammit!" 

"I don't have the time to!" he whirled around, snarling at the Dorcha, whose weight rested on Sam's shoulders. Both brothers were pale and shaking, Sam from the Healing Stone, and Dean from the ceremony, but they glared back in unison at the Viridians. 

"Look, you can't just barge off like that-" Sam tried to reason. 

"Watch me," Castiel said darkly. "I must get back to Viridia immediately." 

"And what of the bargain you struck with us?" Sam snapped. "You were supposed to help Eileen with the crop, remember?"

"I haven't forgotten," Castiel growled in response. "As you saw at the graveyard, I have figured out what can make the crop grow - I shall leave a missive for Eileen with all the details in it. But I must  _ go _ , Sam." 

He was beginning to desperate, he knew, but he didn't care - the  _ only  _ reason Charlie was alive right now was because Marv didn't consider her a threat. 

He'd shut the borders down to prevent the High Paladin and the Dorcha in the painting from crowning the redheaded queen. And while he seemed to believe that the prophecy had been fulfilled, he was still being cautious - by declaring Castiel a traitor and Samandriel as a dark sorcerer, he'd set all of Viridia against them. They were the Fallen now; he could no longer be the High Paladin in his people's eyes. 

But being a paladin meant more than just a station or a crown. Marv had murdered Gertrude - he held Charlie prisoner. 

He could not lose her. Saving her was paramount, for the kingdom and his people, but for himself too. 

"Cassie," Balthazar finally said, his voice serious. "Look, I'm all for rescuing Charlie, but can't just go off half-cocked. The lumbering moron is right, we  _ do  _ need a plan." 

"He could kill her at any second, Baz!" Castiel snarled. "She's... Samandriel..."

His voice failed him, breaking as he gestured towards the direction of the arena. 

Why had they been so  _ stupid _ ? Why didn't they come to him in the first place? 

"You gonna dishonor your apprentice's memory by gettin' yourself killed, Cas?" Dean asked sharply. 

Castiel flinched, but didn't answer. 

"You wanna take that bastard down," he continued, "I geddit. You're worried about your princess, I understand that, but just stop and take a minute, will ya? Let us help." 

"Every minute I spend with  _ you _ , Dean," Castiel retorted, "Is a moment Marv could be killing or torturing  _ her _ ." 

He regretted it the moment he said it. Dean's face fell, lips pursing as he glared back at the paladin. 

"Well, I'm sorry, Your Grace," he retaliated, "That I care enough to want to help." 

Castiel turned away, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He hadn't meant to hurt Dean, but it was true - for the past week, he'd been here, flirting and lusting after the Dorcha, when the last family he had was languishing in her own dungeons, at danger of being killed at any moment. 

Swallowing hard, he muttered hoarsely, "Dean, I- I'm..." he stumbled, and Balthazar reached out to catch him. 

"Still wanna go charging off, Cassie?" he snarked. 

"Cas," Dean sighed, "Look, I'm not saying you shouldn't go in to rescue your princess. Just... wait, will you? Lemme get the castle sorted, and then we'll figure out what to do." 

"Dean, I-" 

"Sam! Dean!" 

Four men turned as one to where Eileen bounded up to them, a frown on her face as she paused in front of the Winchester brothers. 

"What's going on here?" she asked, eyeing Balthazar suspiciously. "Everyone's waitin' for you to declare the festival closed, Dean. And Cas," her frown curved into a huge smile, "It's  _ alive _ . The seed you planted is thriving, Cas, it's  _ growing _ !" 

A weary smile curved his own lips - had it really been just this morning that he'd figured out how to grow crop here? Had it really been so recently that he'd found Life in the middle of Death? 

"I'm glad to hear it," he said sincerely. 

"Dean," she moved to the Dorcha, ducking under his other arm to help Sam support his weight as well. "You look like shit." 

"Love ya too, kiddo," he grunted. 

"I take it you called his apprentice back?" her eyes swung from the paladin to the Dorcha, not missing the tension in the air. "What happened?" 

"Dean, I must-"

"No," Dean interrupted. "Just wait until I declare the festival ended. And then we can figure out what to do. Sam," he turned to his brother, "Help me out there. Cas, don't do anything stupid." 

The three Fallen turned back together, heading out of the castle. Castiel watched them go wistfully, a part of him desperate to join them - he wanted to see the looks on Ellen, Bobby's and everyone else's faces, grow the crop and be a part of the revelry. 

"Come on, Baz," he ordered, turning around deliberately with a deep sigh. "Let's go." 

"We're gonna do something stupid, aren't we?" Balthazar didn't protest, just sounded resigned. 

Castiel glanced at him and then stomped forward determinedly in the direction of his chambers. 

"What do you think?" 

*-*-*

_ Dear Eileen, _

_ I apologize for running out on you, but I must go. Before I leave, however, as I promised - the secret to growing crop. _

_ When I was at the graveyard, I was moved to tears by the song of the children and the idea that even in death, one could continue to give life. Whence we come, thence we return - it strikes me that we are stripped to our basest forms, that we go back to being what we once were, just matter and organic material given a consciousness.  _

_ Which made me think... what if we pull Life that is already existing? It's not so different from your idea by itself - you're taking Life from one ant colony to give to a seed and grow it.  What if, instead, you pulled the Life already  _ **_dormant_ ** _ within a seed? The logistics of that need to be worked out, certainly, but since I managed to grow a single seed's crop already, I am optimistic that it can be done.  _

_ I wish I could stay and help, but I must go back. However, if fate permits, I will return - this is my promise as  _

_ Your friend, _

_ Castiel _

Dean threw the letter back on the table in disgust, scowling angrily. He should've known that Castiel wasn't going to listen to him, should've expected it. 

And now the paladin and his friend were both gone. 

He'd left behind a single letter for Eileen alone, with all the details of the spell they'd need to grow the crop. When they'd all traipsed back to the castle, tired and exhausted from the festival, Eileen had found the letter in her lab, sitting innocuously on her work-table. 

Sam and Dean had raced to Cas's chambers, but there was no indication that the paladin had ever been there - his bags were all gone, as were his clothes and his things. The clothing he'd sent to Cas to keep him warm were lying on the bed, neatly folded.

There was no letter for  _ him _ . 

He tried to not to be hurt, not to read into it. His heart ached - had Cas already turned his back on them? 

But he'd written to Eileen, promised to come back. What did that mean? 

What was he going to do? 

"You need to go after him, Dean," Sam said seriously. Dean whirled around to glare at his younger brother, rubbing his arm. The Mark still hurt from the ceremony, but there was something else, a sense of betrayal that Dean wasn't entirely sure didn't come from him. 

"Like hell I do," he spat. "Cas's made it clear what he wants, Sam. He needs to go rescue his princess." 

"Dean," Sam snapped back. "For once, will you stop thinkin' with your dick?" 

Dean blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?" he snarled. 

"You're butthurt over Cas sneaking out," Sam answered. "And I get it - you love him, you're hurting. But we don't have time for this. You need to go after him." 

"I don't-" he began hotly, feeling his face flush from Sam's assertion. But his brother simply raised an eyebrow and Dean fell silent. Sam knew him too well. 

"Sammy," he said, feeling his throat tighten. "What do I-" 

"He could get himself killed, Dean," Sam cut him off. "And whatever the deal with this prophecy is, the Regent was willing to murder for it." 

"And he'll hurt Cas without thinking twice," Dean finished. "Dammit." 

A moment's silence fell between them before Sam broke it. 

"Dean," he said. 

"Hmm..?"

"D'you think it could be true? A prophecy I mean..."

Dean turned to see Sam watching him, a strange expression on his face. 

"It's just..." Sam shrugged, "If the Dorcha and the High Paladin were blessing the Queen together... that means the borders came down, right? It means that our people are one again. D'you think..." he trailed off. 

Dean massaged his aching temples. 

"No, Sam," he said. "I don't, I can't. One little painting can't just overcome centuries of difference like that. The future isn't set in stone."

Sam sighed, "Yeah," he echoed. 

"But," Dean continued, "The Regent's already killed two people that we know of over this damn prophecy. I don't give a shit about destiny but I do know that I'mma stop him - dude's the reason why so many of our people are dead too." 

"Then I'm comin' with you." 

Dean's eyes snapped to his as he scowled in answer. 

"Absolutely not-" 

"I'm not giving you a choice," Sam said determinedly. "You need me." 

"Who's gonna look after the Witherlands if we both go, Sam?" Dean demanded. "You're my heir and my steward in my absence, you know that!" 

"Eileen," Sam said simply. "And Ellen, and Bobby, and Rufus. There are Council Members here to run things, not to mention Jo and Benny have the castle under perfect control.  They can manage, Dean." 

"Sam, you can't-" 

"I am," he leveled his brother with a stern look. "If only to make sure you don't die because you're too busy ogling Cas's ass, jerk." 

They glared at each other for a long moment before Dean sighed, giving in. 

"Shut up, bitch," he rolled his eyes. "And go get the horses ready. I'mma go find your fiancée and Ellen and let 'em know." 

*-*-*

Less than an hour later, both brothers were on their way to the borders, chasing after Castiel. Sam was the best tracker they had, and it hadn't taken him more than a few moments to point them in the direction that the paladin had taken. Dean had jumped on Impala instantly, urging her into a run and Sam followed, quickly dropping a kiss on Eileen's cheek. 

_ Be careful,  _ she signed. There was a slight tremor to her hands and Sam smiled, trying to stave off the fear that he saw on her face. 

_ We'll be fine, love,  _ he leaned in to kiss her one last time.  _ Take care of things here, okay?  _

"You can count on me, Sam," she said firmly. "Now go." 

Palming her cheek quickly, he offered her a nod, and then swung himself over his horse, riding out after his brother. 

They raced through the trees, following Cas's trail uneasily. The paladin, Sam had to admit, was good at covering his tracks, but he was also in a hurry and he didn't know these woods as well as Sam did. 

"Oh shit," he swore, when he realized where the tracks were leading. "The rapids." 

Dean pulled Impala's reins and she neighed, stopping short. "Again?" he asked sharply. 

"Makes sense, though," Sam nodded. "That was the way Cas got in the first time, he'd wanna get out the same way he knew 'cuz it's faster than searching for a safer route out." 

Dean cursed and then kicked Impala's flank, urging her to run. Sam followed, both of them thundering down the woods side by side towards the spot where they'd first seen Castiel. 

A moment later, the angry sounds of gurgling and crying hit their ears. Dean shared a troubled look with Sam, pushing forward, wincing when he heard Cas yell to his friend. 

"Hang on, Baz!" he was screaming. 

Impala shuddered to a stop and Sam felt a sense of deja vu as his brother threw himself off of her, racing towards the shore, arms held out and a snarl on his face. He ran after him, pulling out his blade, ready to use his magic, even if he was still tired from the Healing Stone. 

Cas was struggling against the rapids, coherent this time, holding a flailing Balthazar to him. He looked weak and small, his face pale as Balthazar thrashed in his grip, attempting to dive down further. 

The wisps, as Sam expected, were floating on top of them, winking in and out, and Dean growled as he held his hand up menacingly. 

"Out," he thundered. They tittered, zooming in close, but he yanked his Blade out of its sheath, holding it up with a loud curse. The Mark pulsed on his arm, glowing an angry golden, and Sam could barely wonder at the change of color before Dean cut his palm and then used the blood-stained Blade to trace the sigil for  _ banish  _ into the sand. 

"Begone!" he roared. The wisps blinked out of existence and Sam reached forward to stop his brother from jumping into the rapids to go after Cas. 

"Sam!" Dean snapped, "The fuck-"

"I'm going this time," he said calmly. "You're still tired from the ceremony." 

Before Dean could protest, Sam threw his blade and his cloak onto the sand next to him, diving in headfirst without pause. The water wasn't as icy as he expected, but it was still cold and he shivered as he swam towards Cas. 

Fortune seemed to be on their side this time, he marveled, because the current wasn't as strong as he remembered it being either. He reached Cas easily, wrapping his arms around the paladin, who ducked under his grip gratefully. 

Balthazar had gone limp with the vanishing of the wisps, and it didn't take Sam and Castiel long to pull him towards the shore, hoisting him up. Sam climbed out carefully, Cas collapsing weakly against the sand, panting harshly. 

"Are you fuckin' nuts?" Dean snapped, not giving him a moment's pause. Castiel peered up at the Dorcha through half-closed eyes. 

"What are you, six?" he continued to rave, "Sneaking off like that, the fuck were you thinkin' Cas?"

"I have to get back to Viridia," the paladin began hotly, "Charlie is-" 

"In trouble, yes," Dean cut him off, "And I told you we'll think of something together, and still, you just went chargin' off like a fucking white knight on a horse!" 

Castiel didn't back down - and watching him stare his angry brother down, Sam knew right then and there that he was the perfect match for Dean. 

"I did what I had to do," he said, seemingly unperturbed. "I need to get there as soon as I can, Dean. Every moment I waste is a moment that the Regent decides he's run out of reason to keep her locked up."

"The prophecy was as much about  _ me  _ as it was you, Cas!" Dean yelled. "This is as much the Witherlands's problem as it is Viridia's." 

For the first time, Sam saw regret flash across Castiel's features. 

"Dean-"

"No," Dean snarled. "You're acting like a presumptuous Viridian dick, I can't... I don't..." he threw his arms up, stomping off with the First Blade towards where Impala stood stiff, waiting for her rider to come back to her. 

Castiel turned to Sam, troubled. He reached over to pound at Balthazar's chest, trying to wake him up, even as he glanced up at Sam.

"I was only trying to fix things," he said hoarsely. "Sam, I-"

"It's not yours to fix," Sam retorted. He leaned over to hold Balthazar down as the man began to flail again, helping Cas pound the water out of his system. The bodyguard choked, turning over to spit, and Sam met Castiel's probing gaze with a harsh look of his own. 

"You're not our savior," he answered the paladin's unasked question. "You don't get to storm in, demand things of us and then decide you know better - not when it deals with all of us."

"But I just-"

"If it involves us, Cas," Sam interrupted, "Then  _ we  _ get a say in it. It's not  _ your  _ people who starved to death, it was us. That's why Dean's pissed." 

He stood up as Balthazar sat up wearily, breathing in deeply, and began the trek back to where his own horse was standing next to Dean. The Dorcha, he saw, had begun to wipe down the First Blade, cleaning it before it could be sheathed, in an attempt to keep his hands busy. 

"And Cas?" he turned back, "He was worried about you too. We all were." 

He shrugged and then left them to gather themselves, knowing that the paladin didn't entirely understand the anger that Dean or Sam felt at the moment. But he was trying, Sam supposed with a sigh, and that counted - Jess  _ hadn't  _ tried, not after a point. 

And Dean had paid the price for it.

*-*-*

They made camp that night close to the Viridian borders. Dean had informed Castiel curtly that they'd be able to cross over and reach the Capital by sunset tomorrow. Before the paladin could thank him, however, he'd turned his back and stomped off to stoke the fire, leaving behind a crestfallen Castiel. 

"What're you doing, Cassie?" Balthazar remarked as they both sat on a log of wood in front of the fire some time later, holding bowls of stew in their hands that Sam had made. 

"What?" he asked distractedly. Dean had wandered off to the side, whistling softly to himself, and Castiel wanted to go after him. Sam, on the other hand, was carving something with his blade, a little way away from them.

"With the Dorcha," Balthazar's voice was sharp and Castiel glanced at him, quickly looking away at the harsh expression on his face. 

"Am I that obvious?" he muttered. 

Balthazar snorted. "As though you've had it stamped onto your head," he replied amusedly. "What'd you think Her Highness is gonna say?" 

Castiel held back a groan - if there was one thing Charlie was always trying to do, it was set him up with random men. 

"She's going to have the time of her life locking you two in a closet," Balthazar continued, smirking and Castiel huffed. 

" _ If _ she gets out," he retorted, wincing even as he said it. Silence fell between them, the easy camaraderie vanishing at the thought of the princess. 

"She's going to be fine, right?" it wasn't Balthazar, but a subject turning to his High Paladin for comfort. 

Tonight, Castiel found, he didn't have the strength to play that part. But he met Balthazar's eyes with a miserable smile of his own and shrugged. 

"I hope so," he whispered. The bodyguard sighed, bringing a spoonful of stew to his mouth and swallowing it whole. 

"Go after him," he advised. Castiel looked at him, startled. 

"What?" he said blankly. Balthazar rolled his eyes. 

"Cassie," he replied slowly, "You don't wanna be here. He wants you there. Go to him." 

"Baz, I-"

"You're in love with him," Balthazar retorted. "It's all over your face." 

"He's the Dorcha - the  _ leader  _ of the Fallen!" Castiel protested. 

"And you're a High Paladin in exile," his friend countered. "May as well make the best use of your banishment," he winked. 

"It's not- I'm not-" Castiel stammered, flustered. His sex life was something he kept intensely private even with a few regular partners - it would not do for the people to see their High Paladin consorting with random men, after all. 

"Look, Cassie," Balthazar said softly. "If there's one thing I've learnt in the past few weeks, it's that we were wrong about the Fallen. Marv's a  _ Viridian  _ and he's the one who's about to execute his own niece. Your boy there," he waved to where Dean was leaning against a tree, staring up at the sky, "Is the  _ Dorcha _ , and he saved your life and mine." 

Setting the bowl down, the bodyguard swallowed hard, looking at his own palms and sighing. 

"I'm not saying it's gonna be easy," he said, "but are you willing to give up without even trying?" 

For a long moment, Castiel simply stared at him. And then, he jumped to his feet, and then smiled at his friend in gratitude. 

"Thank you Baz," he said sincerely. 

"Whatever," the guard yawned, stretching out. "Don't let me hear you boinkin' at night," he teased, "I hear enough of that from Charlie's room." 

Castiel frowned, "She's  _ what _ ?" he barked. 

Balthazar laughed, waving his hand over to Dean, and turned over before the paladin could question him further. Muttering under his breath about the blasted cold, he drew his cloak tighter around him, and closed his eyes, clearly done for the night. 

Shaking his head, the paladin sighed and walked over to Dean, side-stepping Sam who shot him a quick, inscrutable look but didn't remark. Castiel waited until the younger Winchester had turned over and retired for the night as well, huddling close to the fire for warmth. 

Only then did he approach the Dorcha, who was lying on the ground and staring up at the dark sky. His cloak was drawn close around his body, wollen furs piled on top of him, but Castiel wasn't surprised to see that he wasn't shivering - it wasn't as cold as it had been when he'd first stepped into the Witherlands. 

Or maybe he was just getting used to it. 

Shrugging the thought away, he stepped forward hesitantly, clearing his throat. 

"Hello Dean," he said softly. 

Dean didn't give any outward indication that he'd heard, but Castiel saw him stiffen at the sound of his voice. 

"Cas," he greeted listlessly. "What can I do for you, Your Grace?" 

His voice held no emotion whatsoever and Castiel winced, his heart sinking. He padded forward, hesitantly sitting on top of the log Dean himself had been sitting on just a bit earlier. 

"I..." he hesitated, "I just wanted to apologize." 

"For what?" Dean peered up at him. "It's not my business, is it, High Paladin?" 

"Dean, I just..." Castiel looked away from that sharp gaze. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Every moment we spend here," Dean repeated his words from earlier, "Together, is a moment your Regent could be torturing your princess. So let's get some sleep and move on, shall we?" 

_ He deserved that, _ Castiel admittedly ruefully, but he didn't back down. 

"Look," he snapped, "I am aware that I made a mistake. I came here to tell you that I am sorry, Dean. I  _ am  _ sorry that I hurt you - I never meant to." 

"You never  _ mean  _ to, Cas," Dean replied bitterly. "None of you ever do." 

The paladin frowned. "What?" he asked, confused. 

"Doesn't matter," Dean cleared his throat, "It's-"

"Dean," he interrupted, "What do you mean? Who else didn't?" 

The Dorcha fell silent and Castiel waited impatiently, refusing to look away. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind whistling its merry way through the woods; Dean's face looked tired and ancient from the dying light of the fire. There was no moonlight, given that it was a new moon on the day of a total eclipse, which meant that Dean wasn’t healing as fast as he normally would without the moon’s presence even if he’d been at his most powerful this morning. 

"D'you know how I got the Mark, Cas?" Dean asked abruptly. Castiel blinked - what did that have to do with anything? 

"Isn't it... passed down through the bloodline?"

Dean smiled bitterly. "It is," he answered, "But what happens when there's more than one heir?"

"I..."

"The original Mark," Dean continued, "Lucifer had carved on his arm as a token of love for his brother. But when he tried to stab that same brother, with this Blade, in fact," he held up the First Blade, running his hands over it carefully, "The Mark would not stand for it." 

"What happened?" 

"It turned black, just like Lucifer himself turned dark," Dean muttered. "When the first Dorcha after him - Gadreel - accepted the Mark, trying to do right by his people, the darkness receded. It turned crimson, but it never went back to the same golden color it first was." 

"Until now," he held up his arm, and Castiel saw that the Mark was glowing a soft tanned, gold, not quite part of Dean's skin and yet somehow meshing seamlessly with the paleness of it. 

"Dean, how-"

"Every Dorcha," he cut him off, "is chosen at birth. The Mark  chooses."

And it hit Castiel with the force of a crashing wave. 

"Sam was meant for it, wasn't he?" he said quietly. 

Dean's eyes flew to his and he barked out a cold laugh, nodding. "Indeed, Your Grace," he said bitterly. "I was gonna be just his personal guard, keep him safe until he could officially take over as Dorcha after Dad did." 

"What changed?" 

Dean's smile was a brittle, broken thing. "Same thing as with all stories - he met a girl." 

"Jess," Castiel whispered. "The one who left him? The Viridian." 

Dean snorted, "He told you," he said flatly. Castiel shrugged, staring back at the dark sky. 

"Some," he answered, "just that he'd loved her and she'd left him. And how he met Eileen."

"Eileen, right," Dean's voice took a fond turn. "Jess was... she was like you - smart and driven. Sam was smitten, but they were both too young."

Castiel fixed stern eyes on him. "What happened, Dean?" he asked. 

"She was taken with Sam's intelligence," Dean replied. "Wanted him to go to University, but he refused because he was gonna be the Dorcha."

"So you took the Mark for him!" Castiel realized. "Dean, that was-" 

"Utterly stupid, I know," Dean interrupted. "Almost died doin' it too. The Mark chooses, but I convinced Sam to lemme sneak into the ceremony in his place - it happens under the masks and by then, Dad was already drunk off his ass, so he didn't notice who he was giving it to." 

"Woke up about three days later, half-dead. Ellen was just about ready to flay me alive." 

Castiel snorted against himself. "I can imagine," he said wryly. "And Jo would've helped too, I don't doubt." 

Dean chuckled, "Yeah." His smile faded though, as he continued, "I coulda been killed, but I didn't care - Sammy could go to University. He'd never wanted to be Dorcha anyway." 

"And did he?" Castiel frowned. "I assume this was before the borders shut down?" 

Dean nodded. "When the peace negotiations were happening, yeah," he said, "He followed Jess out to Viridia, started University. There weren't many Fallen there, and once word got round that Sam was from the Witherlands..." he let out a bitter sigh, "It didn't go over well." 

"Sam said that she left him," Castiel repeated. 

"One of their classmates' dog died. She was heartbroken and begged Sam to contact him, to let  _ Bones  _ know that she missed him," Dean spat the name like it burned him. "After that..." he looked away from Castiel, swallowing hard, rubbing his hand tightly over the ridges of the Mark. 

"Jess pulled away. Till then, she was excited about Sam's intelligence - now she was terrified. Didn't take long after for her to break up with him." 

"Dean," Castiel's heart ached. He reached out to take the Dorcha's hand, but he snatched it back, refusing to meet his gaze. 

"I'm not Jess, Dean," he said firmly. "I watched you perform the same ceremony and I'm still here." 

"And yet you didn't think twice about walking away," Dean retorted. "That's the problem with you Viridians - you think you can fix everything. What happens, Castiel, when you find something that  _ isn't  _ broken? Would you break it just to prove that you can fix it?" 

Castiel had no answers. He simply bowed his head and accepted the accusation - Jess had shown Sam the promise of a better world, and then tore it away, without thought, without remorse.  _ No wonder, _ he realized with a jolt,  _ the brothers were so close.  _ Dean had accepted the Mark for Sam, and Sam, even after his heart had broken, had come back to the Witherlands so his brother wouldn't have to carry the burden of the Crown alone. 

"And yet," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You still came after me." 

He sought Dean's eyes, staring at him, his heart thundering in his chest. "Tell me, Dean," he insisted. "If I'm as troublesome as that, if I'm truly that deplorable... why did you come after me? Why did you save me?  _ Why did you kiss me? _ " 

Dean looked away. "You know why," he muttered. 

Castiel slid off the log and grabbed his arms, pulling him to a sitting position. Dean yelped, glaring at him, but the paladin leaned in, breathing hot against his face. 

"Tell me," he demanded quietly. 

"Because I'm in  _ love  _ with you, you dork," Dean snapped. "Because even if you break my heart like Jess broke Sam's, I can't regret it - not without giving it a fucking try- _ oomph!" _

Castiel smashed their mouths together, much like Dean himself had before, lunging forward. They both went tumbling on to the ground, Dean's thick arms banding about the paladin's waist, pulling him closer even as he licked the seam of his lips, silently asking for permission. The back of Castiel's neck prickled and he groaned, opening up readily, feeling the heat of Dean's body even through the layers of clothing they wore. 

"I won't," he murmured, pulling back. "I can't promise that I won't break your heart, but I won't hurt you intentionally, Dean." 

He paused, knowing that he hadn't meant to hurt the Fallen this afternoon, but had done it anyway by allowing stupid, internalized notions of what it meant to be High Paladin to override his common sense. 

"I'm going to try," he vowed, "It's not much, I'm aware, but it's the best I can offer." 

He smiled shyly, heart thudding, wondering if Dean was going to accept it. What if he didn't? What if the centuries of discrimination were too much history to let go of, what if -

A wondrous smile broke on Dean's face and he leaned their foreheads together, thumbing Castiel's cheek gently. 

"It's all I need," he whispered. "If you're willing go half-and-half with me. All this," he waved his hands about the Witherlands, "Are as much mine as Viridia is yours."

There was a guarded note in his voice and Castiel understood it for what it was - a warning, because Dean wasn't going to give up being the Dorcha for Castiel. It was as much part of his identity as being the High Paladin was Castiel's. 

So he simply nodded, reaching forward to brush their lips together, once, twice, thrice before pulling back.

"Half-and-half," he agreed, "Partners."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12**

It was dark. By the Sun, it was so _dark_ \- Charlie couldn't see anything in front of her, not even her own hand.

She flailed about desperately, her heart hammering so hard, she thought it was going to fly out of her chest. Her palms were clammy with sweat, her head pounding and she opened her mouth to cry out for Cas, for Baz, for Mother or anyone -

Not a sound escaped.

Her hands flew to her throat as she tried to croak, to at least whisper, but she couldn't.

Her voice was _gone._

She blinked the hot wetness from her eyes and was about to crumple to the ground in despair when a flash of light in the distance distracted her. Her head whipped around, the smallest flame of hope igniting in her chest - _the darkness,_ she realized, _was receding._

The tiniest spark of light was at the corner.

She surged to her feet, chasing after it; the spark felt familiar, felt warm, and she reached for it. _Cas, it had to be him,_ she thought, almost sobbing with relief,

She lunged, intent on grabbing him -

\- and awoke with a start, shivering in her own goddamn dungeons, the dim light casting terrifying shadows on the walls.

The sobs she'd been holding back so far returned and she allowed herself to whimper softly, her heart still thudding. Her long hair was tangled and matted from a mix of sweat and lack of maintenance - how long had it been since she'd felt the touch of hairbrush?

She wasn't spoiled, but it was the smallest things she missed. The taste of the early morning breeze, the warmth of the sun against her skin, Cas's gentle laugh and Baz's teasing baritone in the morning as they came to wake her...

_Cas, where are you?_

She curled up, shoulders shaking quietly as she gave in to the tears that had been building for days now. She had lost count of the days since she'd sent her High Paladin to the Witherlands to find out the truth.

Alfie was _dead_ \- by _her_ command. And her own uncle had murdered her mother.

How had her life come to this?

She'd never known Queen Gertrude, but Joshua, Cas's mentor, had often told tales of her mother's bravery and selflessness. She'd married into royalty, but never once had she sullied the dignity of the title she held - _her first thought,_ she recalled Joshua telling her seven year old self when she'd sulked about lessons in governance, _was her people._

And her own Uncle had killed her.

Just as _she'd_ gotten Alfie killed with her own stupidity. _Why_ hadn't she gone to Cas the moment she found the missive? Why had she thought she could handle it herself?

 _Pride,_ Joshua's voice echoed in her head, _and stubbornness are not good traits for a ruler._

And now, Cas was gone too - he'd disappeared soon after her arrest. Her heart had leapt when she first heard that; surely, he'd followed her orders to go the Witherlands, find a Necromancer to find out the truth?

Days later, left to rot in the Regent's dungeons, she wasn't so certain any longer.

Maybe Cas had abandoned her too - maybe he'd realized he didn't want to serve a silly girl such as herself and finally washed his hands off her.

As if on cue, the sounds of heavy footsteps resounded within the small space and Charlie scrambled forward. She'd been kept in a secure corner of the dungeons, away from the rest of the prisoners they had. While it kept her safe from the meanest of Viridian men and women, it also isolated her - the only faces she'd seen were those of Zachariah, Roman and her guard, Inias. The isolation was beginning to get to her, and this, she suspected, was the point.

"Your Grace!" Inias's voice was sharp.

"Out of my way, you idiot," Zachariah sounded as much like a sanctimonious prick as he always had, and Charlie winced.

The door banged open, and Inias shot her an apologetic look from behind the bald man's back. She smiled back weakly - since she was arrested, Inias had been nothing but kind, as much as he could anyway.

"Well, well, well, princess," Zachariah smirked, striding forward. "Ready to talk now?"

"You leave me alone, you spineless bastard," she snapped.

He simply raised an eyebrow at her. "Brave words from a traitor," he sneered back. "but then," he shrugged, "It's understandable, I guess."

He reached out to palm her cheek. Charlie snarled and turned around to bite at his fingers with her teeth - by the _Sun_ , none of these assholes were fucking laying a hand on her.

"You little bitch," the fat prime minister yelled, pulling back instead. She smirked at him, spitting on the floor next to his perfectly polished shoes, and he glared back at her.

Then, his expression softened, and he smiled. Charlie blinked at the sudden change, scowling back at him angrily.

"You poor child," he said in what she supposed was meant to be a sweet tone. "How that dark sorcerer has corrupted you."

"What?" Charlie spat, bewildered. " _What_ dark sorcerer?"

"Why Castiel, of course!" he exclaimed. "The man masquerading as the High Paladin, who allowed dark magic to defile the Inner Sanctum of the Sun! He's taught you wrong all these years."

Charlie felt an absurd, acrid laugh bubbling in her throat. "Cas?" she scoffed. " _Dark_ magic? You have a better chance at the Crown than him ever practicing dark magic, you ass."

"And a chance at the Crown is exactly what he was trying, my child," Zachariah said gently. "He was trying to brainwash you into listening to his every word - why else would he vanish the moment the Regent arrested you?"

"The Regent is a bloody murderer," she spat. "He killed my mother, killed Alfie-!"

"Ah, Alfie," he slapped his palms together, "Who was _Castiel's_ apprentice, was he not? Whom the good Regent found snooping in his chambers, who brought darkness into the Inner Sanctum?"

He leaned forward and patted Charlie's shoulders in a show of camaraderie; she felt sick.

"Castiel hasn't been seen in weeks, princess," he said in a low tone. "He and his dark magic are long gone."

"Cas is _not_ dark, you son of a-"

"Why else," he cut in, "Would he lock the Inner Sanctum with his own blood? Blood magic is powerful, dark magic - everyone knows that. And because of him, the most powerful object in all of Viridia - the Sword of Life - remains lost to us."

Charlie paused, well aware of Inias outside, listening to their every word. It was a closely guarded secret that Cas had confided in her when he'd had his caduceus made. Blood magic wasn't evil, but it was powerful - almost too powerful. Used without consent, it could destroy a person; it was why the paladins of old had allowed the misconception to thrive in regular society. It was also why paladins guarded their caduceus' so closely.

"It isn't," she hissed finally, "Cas would never-"

"He already has," Zach said airily. "He's long gone, Your Highness."

There was a sneer on his face that told her that he knew the truth just as well as she did - Marv had killed her mother and Cas wasn't evil.

But where _was_ he?

"We understand that it can be hard to overcome years of abuse, dear," he continued sweetly, "Which is why we shall keep an eye on you until you're ready to take the throne. Castiel has been declared traitor to the crown, to be arrested and brought to the castle on sight - we must work on you bringing you from under his dark spell. Viridia, after all, can't be used by a puppet; we will do what we must."

 _Listen to what we say,_ she translated dully, _or you won't escape._

Before she could retort, Zachariah turned on his foot and stomped out, the sounds of his footsteps fading quickly. Charlie fell to the ground, feeling the sobs from before bubble in her throat again - where was Cas? Why wasn't he here yet?

Inias walked in, looking uncomfortable and she sniffled.

"Is there anything else you need, Your Highness?" he asked softly. "I'm sorry, I wish I could help more."

"Do you believe it too, Inias?" she asked hoarsely. "That Cas is evil? That I've been brainwashed all my life?"

 _Has he abandoned me too?_ she couldn't force those words out.

Inias's gaze turned troubled. "I don't know," he admitted. "His Grace has been a friend to me since I joined... but," he shrugged, "Why else would he vanish so suddenly?"

Charlie could only whimper in response.

*-*-*

Viridia was hot.

Dean groaned, pulling his cloak off and stuffing it into his bag. Castiel chuckled in front of him, leaning up to smile at him fondly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, eyes twinkling and Dean grumbled under his breath, refusing to answer. Behind them, he could hear Sam groan to himself as well, and comforted himself with the knowledge that he wasn't the only one suffering.

The sun hung high in the sky, and there was a sense of vibrancy about the entire land - Dean had felt it the second they'd crossed over the borders. The Witherlands were a place of cold and Death; Viridia was the exact opposite. It thrived with the warm magic of Life, its fields greener than Dean had ever seen.

It set him on edge, because he'd never been this keenly aware of the difference between himself and Cas. The High Paladin was perfectly at home here - this was _his_ turf and well did he know it as he twisted in the saddle to place a brief but comforting kiss on Dean's cheek. They were both on Impala, Sam on his on horse and Balthazar riding single on the horse the Viridians had stolen from the castle back home.

"Dean?" Cas seemed to sense that his discomfort went beyond just the temperature, squinting at him quizzically.

Dean shrugged, kissing him back easily, marveling that he was allowed to do that now - difference or no difference, Cas was _his_.

A part of him worried about what would happen after they set the Regent to rights, after Her Highness was crowned Queen, but he pushed that part deep down. Despite the growing sense of foreboding that deepened as they came closer to the Capital, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth - for now, he had Cas in his arms and he was gonna take every second he could get.

Sam had once told him, a long time ago, that the biggest regret he had with Jess was how the entire thing had affected Dean and the Fallen, not for himself. _I loved her, Dean,_ his brother's voice echoed in his head, _and I don't regret a moment of it._

Looking at the way Cas was frowning now, staring up at him in worry, Dean thought he could understand that. The paladin could - and probably would - break his heart, but it didn't matter.

"I'm alright, Cas," he answered. "So, where're we headed? Can't just go bargin' into the palace to free your princess, right?"

"Cassie can't go into the Capital at all, actually," Balthazar spoke up, coming to a stop next to them. "He's been declared traitor and banished," he reminded them. Golden brows drew into a thoughtful frown as he added, "Come to think of, since I vanished too, I may have been declared traitor too."

"It doesn't matter," Cas insisted, "We need to get Charlie out of the dungeons - she's the true heir to the throne. Most Viridians are loyal to her."

"Maybe but that doesn't negate the Regent's power," Sam pointed out. "He's declared you to be a dark sorcerer - he's got hold over the people."

"What we need," Balthazar said, "Is hard evidence of the fact that he's a murderer. Accusations get us nowhere; even if we rescue Her Highness, the people won't accept a queen who's supposedly under the influence of a dark High Paladin."

"And you riding into town with the Dorcha of the Witherlands wouldn't exactly endear them to me," Cas sighed. Dean's heart sank, but he didn't protest the comment - the Viridians did believe that the Fallen had murdered their queen years ago, after all.

"Dean, I-" Cas twisted around, an apologetic smile on his face. Dean shrugged, squeezing his hands lightly.

"Not your fault," he muttered, though he couldn't meet those knowing blue eyes. "It is what it is."

"So what do we do then?" Sam asked.

"Alfie said that he found the scroll in Marv's chambers?" Cas said slowly, recalling Dean's vacant expression from when he'd been possessed by his apprentice's spirit. "If we can find those missives instructing Gertrude's assassins to kill her, we have the evidence we need."

"Wouldn't he have destroyed those missives by now?" Dean said. "If he killed Samandriel, he knew he'd been discovered  - why keep it around?"

"For that matter," Sam speculated, "how did the Regent know that the old painting he found _was_ a prophecy in the first place? It could’ve just been an old drawing."

"I don't know," Castiel replied, troubled. "But all this talk is useless - if Charlie dies, then by rule of succession, the throne goes directly to Marv. He's her Uncle, the King's brother. We need to get her out before we can do anything else."

"And I know just the person to help us," Balthazar announced. "Missouri."

Cas stiffened in his arms.

"You're..." he hesitated, his voice low, "you're certain she will help?"

Balthazar leveled him with a stern look, "She's been waitin' for Samandriel's killers to be brought to justice. Of course she will."

The paladin sighed, biting his lower lip.

"Cas?" Dean called softly.

Looking up, he finally nodded. "Alright then," he said. "To Missouri's."

*-*-*

The sounds of yelling in the distance woke Charlie. She sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes and shivering - the dungeons were cold at night and she didn't even have a cloak to cover herself with.

A familiar voice reached her and Charlie swallowed hard in recognition, guilt swelling in her chest.

"Lemme see her!" Missouri demanded, "Lemme see that heretic princess! She _killed_ my boy."

"Ma'am, please," Inias tried to console her. "You musn't be here, how did-"

"That stupid princess is the reason my boy is _dead_ !" Missouri shrieked loudly. "She could've stopped him, could've _stopped_ that Castiel, but she didn't-"

"Listen lady," Roman's oily voice cut in. "Unless you want to join Her Highness in the cells, I would suggest you turn around and walk out."

"Or what?" Missouri snapped, "My boy is dead. _Dead_. I want retribution, I don't-"

A bunch of other voices joined in, yelling loudly, and there was the sound of a scuffle right outside her door. But Charlie ignored it all, her eyes burning with the truth of Missouri's words - Cas hadn't killed him, but she _was_ responsible for Alfie's death nonetheless.

How could he be Queen after that? She'd gotten one of the most loyal men she knew killed - how could she hope to gain their trust after that?

She wasn't fit to be a leader.

She didn't stop the sobs this time, allowed herself to curl up on the cold, hard ground of her dungeon and cry. Her shoulder shook, tears rolling down her face, and she gulped in deep breaths, gathering her knobby knees to her chest and heaving into them.

So lost was she in the force of her own misery, she didn't hear the door swish open. Neither did she hear the soft padding of footsteps or the way Inias's voice grew particularly loud, as though to distract everyone gathered.

"Charlie?"

Her head snapped up at the sound of that voice, however, and she stared in disbelief at the familiar blue eyes watching her worriedly.

"C-Cas?" she stammered.

The paladin's expression softened, and he reached out to gently palm her cheek. Unlike with Zachariah, Charlie didn't flinch away, allowing him to gently wipe her tears away, cradling her face in his hands as though she was something precious.

"We must get out of here," he whispered. "Come."

And then the reality of what was happened sunk in - _Cas was here._

Cas was here to rescue _her_.

A great, gulping sob escaped her, and she threw herself at him, long limbs wrapping around his steady, strong form. Powerful arms - so familiar from when they would catch her before she fell off her horse - banded about her small waist as Cas hauled her up to her feet.

"Cas," she sobbed, "I thought... I didn't-"

"I know, Charlie," he soothed, "I'm here."

He held her tight for a moment, and she was startled to realize that he was shaking too - it struck her then, that he'd watched her be carried off and had spent the past few weeks wherever he'd been worried about her.

_He'd come back for her._

Finally pulling back, he looked at her critically. "We need to get out of here," he said reluctantly, "Can you walk?"

"I think so," she nodded. Taking a step forward, she stumbled, suddenly dizzy. Cas rushed forward to catch her, and he frowned.  

"Charlie?"

"I may or may not have eaten anything in a couple days," she admitted. He glared at her and she threw her arms up.

"I didn't want to get dosed with something that would make them control me or something!" she said defensively.

He sighed, rolling his eyes and turned his back to her, going on his knees.

"You've been reading too many fantasy books," he grumbled, "Get on, I'll carry you out."

She blinked. A slow smile curved her lips as she weakly wrapped her limbs around him, climbing on to his back with practiced ease. Cas quickly stood, and she hugged him from behind like a baby monkey - how many times had she begged him to do this when they'd both been kids?

They stole out of the dungeon quickly and quietly. Everyone's attention was on the argument with Missouri right outside of Charlie's cell. Inias alone turned and gestured for Cas to sneak out behind his back - Charlie blinked, tears pricking her eyes at the realization that he'd risked himself to help Cas get her out.

He'd trusted her, despite the fact that he didn't know who was in the right.

The faith was her undoing; she buried her face in Cas's back, crying quietly again. The wool he wore scratched at her face, and she sniffled in surprise - why was he wearing wool at the height of Viridian summer?

The paladin didn't say anything but the way his grip on her thighs tightened told her that he could feel the force of her shaking and the hot wetness of her tears seeping into his skin.

Finally free of her uncle and wrapped up in the arms of the last family she had, Charlie rested her chin on Castiel's back and allowed herself to drift off. Cas would take care of her.

He always did.

*-*-*

Dean watched curiously as Cas strode into the small hut, carrying the princess on his back like a baby monkey. His arms were wrapped tight around her thighs, holding her close to him, and the Dorcha saw that she was fast asleep against his back, a long veil of red hair covering her face.

He hurried forward to help the paladin, gesturing for him to turn around so he could pull the princess of his back. Cas didn't hesitate, moving towards the pallet that lay in the corner and passing his burden to Dean.

 _She weighed unsurprisingly little,_ Dean noted, as he lifted her off of Cas's back and lowered her to the pallet. And by the Goddess, she was so _young_ , her face youthful and elfin like. She was younger than he'd been when he took command of the Witherlands.

Heart aching for the lost innocence, he straightened up, raising an eyebrow at Cas's angry glare. They were the only ones here - Baz and Missouri were meant to be the distraction while Cas snuck Charlie out. _It looked like that plan had gone alright, at least,_ Dean thought somewhat bitterly.

He and Sam had been sidelined, much to their chagrin. They'd been here a whole day before they could figure out how to get the princess out. Missouri had welcomed them instantly as Balthazar had predicted; the guard had simply smirked in victory before riding out into town to do some reconnaissance work. He'd returned that evening with the news that it was Inias who was guarding the princess in the dungeons - Cas had jumped at that, insisting that the man was loyal to the Crown.

 _It was one of the biggest arguments they'd had up till now,_ Dean reflected. Loyal or not, the people had bought into what the Regent was selling - they all believed that Cas was evil, having locked the Inner Sanctum with his own blood, thus locking away Viridia's most precious treasure, the Sword of Life. Which meant that even if Inias was loyal to the princess, they couldn't be certain that he wouldn't have Cas arrested on the spot if the paladin revealed himself to him. And it wasn't just Cas; both Sam and Dean were breaking the law by being here - none of the Fallen were allowed into Viridia.

Cas had snarled and insisted that they take the risk - Missouri had intervened, offering to speak to Inias to fix things up. They'd spent another day in tense silence before she'd returned with the guard in tow, a satisfied smirk on her face. She was one woman Dean never wanted to cross, that was for sure - she reminded of him Ellen, in fact, with her matter-of-fact behavior and her stern mothering.

With Inias on their side, the Viridians had quickly planned it out - Baz (who _hadn't_ been declared traitor as he'd feared) and Inias would provide them access to the castle and the princess, Missouri would be the distraction, and Cas would sneak her out quietly.

Needless to say, Dean had not been pleased. But Cas and Baz had shot him and Sam down - not only did they not know the castle at all, they could be killed on the spot if they were found. Dean had argued fiercely; Cas's powers were still recovering from the eclipse - he'd be weak if he were caught. At least he could provide some cover if he went along.

But Cas had stood firm, and in the end, Dean had reluctantly agreed, feeling bitter at being sidelined yet again. Sam had been more magnanimous, sending them off with an urgent _be careful_ , before heading to Missouri's backyard to tend to their horses.

And now, here Dean was, unable to say anything as Cas tended to the princess he'd risked his life for. She was barely more than a kid and the tenderness with which the paladin tucked a strand of hair behind her ear was telling.

"You really love her," he grunted.

Cas looked up, sighing softly.

"She's my everything," he said, "I told you before, that she's-"

"You family, yeah," he finished. "I geddit."

Silence fell between them, tense and angry, and Dean wondered at it. Just a few days ago, they'd promised to try - were they forever going to hurt each other by just being who they were?

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas repeated again. "But wouldn't you have done the same in my place? If it had been Sam in Marv's dungeons?"

He looked back down at the sleeping princess, his heart in his eyes, and Dean sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "I would have. It's just..." he paused, "You _can't_ keep leavin' me behind, Cas," he said quietly. "Or this," he waved between them, "Will never work."

Cas met his eyes unflinchingly. "I know," he replied softly. "And I don't plan on leaving you behind again." He glanced at the princess and turned back to Dean, "The Regent has committed his last crime," he said determinedly. "Help me bring him down?"

Dean grinned.

"Thought you'd never ask."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 13**

Charlie woke up to the sounds of arguing. Groaning, she sat up, the blanket covering her falling off as she rubbed her eyes. For a moment, she stared around in her confusion - she was lying on a pallet, and the room she was in was not the opulence she was used to. 

Her confusion vanished when she recognized the table in front of her. 

She was at Missouri's - that was the spot where she'd held the old woman after she had broken down at the news of Samandriel's death. 

Her heart sank, but before she could anything more, her attention was drawn to the two men standing in front of her, scowling at one another. One of them was Cas, she saw, the other an unfamiliar guy, with golden-brown hair, who was snarling into Cas's face. 

They looked like two feral animals snapping at one another; Charlie held back a smirk at the sexual tension in the air. Either they were gonna fuck or they were gonna fight - she was okay with both, so long as her poor High Paladin saw some action. 

"Dean, these are  _ my  _ paladins-" Cas was saying. 

"Who  _ your  _ apprentice suspected of working for the Regent!" the man snapped back, "You really wanna get 'em involved?" 

"Alfie named only a few," Cas hissed, "And I admit that a lot more are probably loyal to Marv, but I know soldiers. Inias was on our side!" 

"We can't trust everyone on account of a one loyal fighter!"

"You know," Charlie spoke up, "You guys probably need to move to the bedroom, work that tension out a little." 

"Charlie!" 

Cas's head whipped around to her. A flush spread down the side of his neck and he scowled, nevertheless still stomping over to her and sticking his face next to hers. 

"Are you okay?" there was a note of anxiety in his tone, and her expression softened as she reached out to pat his cheeks.

"I'm good, Cas," she said honestly. "Sleep helped." 

He sighed, the tension flowing out of him, and he sank on to the pallet next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She tucked herself into his side, a bit surprised at how openly affectionate he was being - they hadn't done this since before she hit teenage, Cas adopting the appropriate distance he needed to on principle. She usually was the one to initiate any physical contact between them and that also happened only when they were alone, generally in his chambers. 

"Well, the princess awakens," the other dude snarked. "Welcome back, Your Highness." 

"Dean," a third, tall man entered the room, holding a bowl of soup in his hands, his tone containing a note of warning. 

"What, Sammy?" he snapped. The tall man - _ woah, he was a giant, _ Charlie mused - smacked him on the shoulder and walked over to Cas and Charlie, placing the bowl on the table to smile at her kindly. 

"Eat, Your Highness," he said softly. "You're probably hungry." 

The wonderful smell of Missouri's homemade broth made her stomach growl, but Charlie didn't eat, eyeing both strangers warily. Castiel' grip around her tightened, and she looked up at him questioningly. 

"It's alright," he muttered. "They're on our side." 

"Who are you?" Charlie demanded. 

Golden-hair tilted his head and walked closer. 

"Dean Winchester," he said flatly. "Dorcha of the Witherlands. And this giant here is my brother, Sam." 

Long strands of red hair whipped around as she turned to face Cas with wide eyes. The paladin had gone stiff, and from the corner of her eyes, she saw both men tense up as well, hands hovering over the blades that hung at their sides. 

"You did it," she breathed, "You went to the Witherlands." 

Castiel's head tilted in his usual nod of acquiescence and Charlie nearly cried at that familiar sight. 

"You asked me to," he said quietly. "Did you think I'd refuse a direct order from my queen?" 

There was a teasing glint in his eyes - when she'd been a child, she'd often lorded him about by using her station as his future queen. It had rarely worked, Castiel usually just ignoring her, until one day, she'd burst into tears in front of him, lonely and tired from being the princess. He'd hugged her then, bowed to her and told her that he'd help her always, but not because she was his princess. He'd do it because she was his friend, his almost-sister. 

Throat tightening at the memory, she threw herself into his arms the same as she did back then. His arms were thicker now, stronger and more muscled, but the conviction in them were the same as they used to be - warm and welcoming and so,  _ so  _ safe. 

"Thank you," she whispered. Pulling back, she sniffled, looking up where Sam and Dean were watching them curiously. She gently untangled herself from Cas's grip and stood on shaky legs. Cas moved forward to support her but she shot him a stern look, ordering him to stay back without words. 

This was the Dorcha of the Witherlands - the same people who had suffered because  _ her  _ uncle had destroyed them. But more than that, these boys were her cousins; they were descended from her ancestor. They shared blood. 

She needed to approach Dean on the same level. 

So she walked up to him, meeting cool green eyes unflinchingly, holding herself proudly. But before he could say anything else, she curtseyed as she'd been taught to do in her stupid etiquette classes - they were equals and she wasn't going to lower herself, but this man did deserve her respect, if only because he'd clearly allied himself to her side. 

"Welcome to Viridia, Your Grace," she said, her voice strong and clear. 

Surprise flashed across his face before it vanished and he smiled suddenly.  _ He looked beautiful, _ Charlie realized with a start - no wonder Cas was taken with him. 

Bowing low, he said in his deep voice, "Thank you, Your Highness."

From the surprise in his voice, it was obvious that he hadn't expected the warm welcome. Charlie could see the wonder on his face as she chuckled and reached out to grab his hands, squeezing them tightly. 

"You are welcome here," she told them earnestly. "Now and always. I never agreed with the border shut-down my uncle instituted - if I could, I would get rid of it right now." 

His expression turned cold and he nodded.

"Please, Your Grace," she added, "Accept my apology for your people's suffering. It does not count for much, and it can hardly alleviate your pain, but it is the best I can offer at this instance." 

His expression softened, and he patted her hands back gently. 

"You were just a child, Milady," he said quietly. "We of the Fallen do not hold children responsible for the deeds of their elders." 

There was a pointed note in his voice - the Fallen had been discriminated for centuries for this particular instance. 

She inclined her head, accepting the accusation for what it was, drawing her hands back. 

"But, Your Highness," Sam spoke up, "there  _ is  _ something you can do for us." 

She turned to him with a frown. "What's that, Lord Sam?" she asked. 

He made a face, "Sam," he insisted, "Please." 

"Sam," she allowed with a smile. "Then I'm Charlie... Dean?" she turned the last into a question, turning back to the elder Winchester. 

_ The surprise was back, _ she noted with a smirk, before he hooted a laugh and nodded. 

"Dean," he agreed, "Works for me, kiddo. We are cousins, after all." 

Warmth split her chest at the endearment, at the easy affection in his tone, and she grinned back at him. 

"And it's about time we excise the family tree," she told him. "Tell me all that's happened these past few weeks." 

She turned back to Cas, who was watching them with an expression of pride. He gestured for her to rejoin him, and she did, sinking next to him gratefully. Sam reached over to thrust the bowl of soup on the table into her hands and she accepted it, eyeing it hungrily. 

"Eat," he instructed, and she did, groaning as the first spoon splashed into her mouth. 

Hot food was another of the little things she'd missed in the dungeon. 

Marveling at the taste of Missouri's cooking, she listened carefully as the three men explained all that had happened in the past few weeks. 

Her heart broke at Cas's description of the Witherlands. While the Viridian discrimination against the Fallen was centuries-old, it was her uncle that had shut the borders down, affecting their livelihoods directly. She was indirectly responsible for so many deaths - how could she ever make it right? 

She nodded approvingly at the bargain Cas had struck with the Dorcha; watching them now, she thought with a smirk,  _ more than a bargain had been struck. _ It was obvious as day - Cas had feelings for the man, and from the shy glances he was sneaking at the paladin, it wasn't one-sided. 

"And Samandriel?" she asked quietly, the name sitting heavy on her tongue. It was why she'd sent him there in the first place - she needed to know. 

Dean's expression darkened, Sam's stance becoming more guarded. 

"We called him back," the Dorcha stated, voice carefully expressionless, and with a start, Charlie realized that they expected to be shunned for their use of magic. She didn't react, knowing anything she said would be eyed with suspicion - if she told them it was okay, she'd be patronizing them, and if she frowned, their expectations of being discriminated against would be fulfilled. 

"You were right, Charlie," Cas confirmed quietly. "Alfie did find proof of the Regent's guilt. He had your mother killed." 

Her heart constricted at that; she would have to pass judgement on her own uncle now - her father's brother. How had it come to this?

Sighing, she nodded. "Tell me," she requested. 

And they did - they told her of the prophecy and the painting, of the way Balthazar had sided with them, as had Inias, and of the plan they were now concocting to get the Regent to confess the truth to the people. 

"Because he's spread rumors about my brainwashing," she realized, "even if I made a public announcement of his guilt, I wouldn't be taken seriously." 

"And Cas would be executed onspot," Dean said, his fists clenching. "That's not even takin' into account me and Sam."

"Which is why," Cas snapped at Dean, "We will need the paladins' help to find a way to discredit the Regent." 

"No," Dean hissed back, "We don't know who's allied with him, Cas! You can't take that kind of chance!" 

"We don't have a choice, Dean," Cas snarled. "The longer we stay here, the more danger we are in of Marv's men finding Charlie. News of her escape must have already spread by now - we can't just sit idle!" 

"Yeah, but we can't take stupid chances, either, Cas!" Dean banged his hands on the table. 

"Those are my paladins, Dean," Cas said evenly, "I know them -  _ I  _ trained them."

Silence fell as Sam and Charlie watched both men warily, heads bobbing from one side to the other as the lovers fought. 

"If that's your decision then, Your Grace," Dean spat, "Then you're on your own." 

He turned on his heel and stalked out the back. 

"Dean-" Cas started, but Sam stopped him, shaking his head slightly. 

"Let him stew," he said kindly. "He'll come around." 

"That boy needs a good whackin' is what he does," a familiar voice had Charlie looking up to see Missouri walking into the hut with a frown on her face. Behind her, Balthazar's face lit up as he saw Charlie sitting and eating next to Cas. He pushed past the old woman to race over to her, bowing low. 

"Your Highness," he murmured, and Charlie felt a lump in her throat at the sight of his blonde hair and that sweet smirk. 

"Baz," she greeted. He smiled up at her, and she set the bowl down and then threw herself at him, hugging him tightly. 

"Thank you," she whispered. "For going to Cas, for being on my side, for believing in me enough." 

He pulled back and patted her cheek. "Nowhere else I'd rather be, kid," he said softly. 

Charlie sniffled and then looked to Missouri, walking over shakily. 

"Ms. Moseley," she said quietly. "Thank you. For everything. You've... even though it was my fault that your grandson... I..." 

The crinkles around the old woman's face deepened as she nodded sharply. 

"Get him justice," she replied simply. "That's all I want for my boy now." 

Charlie inclined her head. "I will do everything in my power," she vowed. "Which is why," she whirled around, "I'm gonna go talk to Dean. You three," she gestured to the three men watching, "figure out a way to discredit Marv while I convince him that we need the paladins." 

*-*-*

Dean scowled as he kicked at the small bucket lying innocently next to the stone well in Missouri’s backyard. Cas had spelled the whole place with the  _ privacy  _ sigil so no one could look over the fence to see them there, but  it was still a bad idea for him to be out here, particularly given his Fallen blood. But right now, Dean didn’t care - he just needed out from inside the hut for a moment. 

He understood Cas’s argument, understood why it was necessary that they seek out some of the paladins in the castle to strike against the Regent. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t stupid. What he was, however, was raw - his heart ached from the fear and the confusion of the past few days. 

The back of his neck prickled with sweat from the harsh Viridian sun and Dean swore inwardly, scratching at the spot in irritation. It was a stark reminder of how different he and Cas were - the warmest summers in the Witherlands were colder than the Viridian winters. 

From the moment they’d stepped into Viridia, Dean had been acting like a dick and he knew it. He was terrified, because Cas was the High Paladin and he was the Dorcha and he’d never been as acutely aware of it as he was now. He was lashing out at the wrong people, but it hurt, this uncertainty. 

“You’re gonna glare a hole into that bucket if you don’t stop.” 

Dean whirled around to see the princess standing before him, a small smile on her face. Her long, fiery hair lay limp over one shoulder, bright hazel eyes peering up at him curiously and he felt himself softening against his will. 

Despite the fact that she was the heir to the Viridian throne, Dean found himself liking her - she was unassuming, but not stupid. Not only had she welcomed him and Sam, she’d offered apology for her uncle’s actions. She had honor and that was something he respected. 

“Your Highness,” he muttered sulkily.

She snorted. “I look less like a princess than you do the Dorcha,” she said amusedly. Dean tensed again; the movement did not go unnoticed as she remarked, “Relax, Your Grace. I’m not judging, just makin’ an observation.” 

He turned away, refusing to comment, hoping she’d go back inside and let him stew. She did nothing of the sort, instead waking close to him and leaning over the well, staring into the water with a sigh. 

A moment of silence passed between them, and she finally looked up at him, compassion written on every inch of her youthful face. She was so young, and yet, there was an ageless maturity about her - _ it was in the way she held herself, _ he realized, as though she  _ felt  _ the burden of the crown she wasn’t wearing currently. 

“I’m not gonna make some great speech,” she said softly. “And I am aware that I have no right to speak for the Witherlands, especially not after what my uncle’s done. But,” she turned back to the well, looking down, “You did offer to help. Are you going back on that offer?” 

“I don't go back on my word,” he said bitterly. “But there are better ways than blindly searching for those who could knife us in the back when we’re sleeping.”

“No one is saying we are going in blind,” she agreed, “That doesn’t mean we shouldn't take risks.” 

“And get killed?” he demanded. “If you die, if Cas dies, if Sam gets hurt… I can’t…” 

“You’re stubborn,” she remarked. 

“One of my better qualities,” he snarked back. She smiled darkly, running a hand through her hair, fingers catching on a knot that she began to untangle slowly. 

“I understand,” she whispered. “But Dean,” her gaze was filled with a deep, tired sorrow that was all too familiar. “My stubbornness and unwillingness to ask for help was the reason Samandriel lost his life - if I hadn’t been so sure I could do it all by myself, he’d still be here today.” 

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” she finished, straightening up. “After all the centuries of coldness and anger, I can’t. What I will ask, however, is that you have faith in  _ Cas  _ \- he’s one of the best strategists I’ve ever know, but more than that, he’s the best man I know. He’d never risk any of us.”

Her eyes began to twinkle. “You care about him, don't you?” her voice took on a teasing quality, and in it, Dean knew she’d read their relationship perfectly right. His own eyes widened and he looked away, flushing a bright red. 

“You’re a smart kid,” he said finally. She laughed out loud, reaching forward twine their arms together. 

“Well?” she demanded. “Do you?” 

Despite how annoyed he was, he felt the beginnings of a smile curve his lips. “I’m in love with him,” he admitted. 

“He’s the closest thing I have to a brother,” she replied. “He’s my only family around here.” Winking, she added, “Does this mean I get to give the big-sister speech?” 

He snorted. “Bit too young for that, aren’t’cha?” he teased back gently. She shrugged.  “Age is relative,” she informed him loftily. They both stared at one another for a long second and then burst into laughter, the tension dissipating easily between them. 

“Please, Dean,” she murmured when the laughter died down. “Trust that we know Viridian ways well enough to gauge who’s on our side. If this was your home, Cas and I would trust you to lead us - return that faith, please.” 

Sighing, he nodded stiffly. “You’re right, kiddo,” he answered. “I’m just… it’s all…” he waved his arm about, gesturing to the whole of the land. Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the Mark, but she didn't comment, waiting for him to finish. 

“Bit big for me,” he said finally. 

“Me too,” she whispered. “That’s why we can't do it alone, okay?” 

“Again,” he said. “You’re too smart for your own good.” 

She chuckled, and opened her mouth to say something when the sounds of horses riding up to the hut drew both their attention. Dean tensed, pushing her behind him, and then strode up to the door, peeking through carefully. 

“Who’re you?!” Missouri demanded hoarsely as soldiers strode into her hut. Sam and Baz leapt to their feet, even as Cas slid backwards, quietly slipping into the shadows. A fat, balding man walked up to the dark-skinned old woman and snapped at her, Dean saw, wincing as he slapped shackles onto her hands. 

“Back,” he hissed at Charlie, pushing her back towards the well. She gasped, opening her mouth to protest, but Dean grabbed her wrist and slapped his hand over her mouth, pulling her from the hut. 

“You can’t just waltz in here and arrest an old woman! Who are you?” 

_ Sam!  _

His stomach swooped at the sound of his brother demanding who the bald man was, and he hesitated, torn between protecting Charlie and running to Sam’s aid. Before he could make a decision, however, Cas slipped into the backyard in front of them, caduceus in his hands. 

“I’m the Prime Minister is who I am,” came the silky answer. “And who are you, young man, to stop me?” 

“Zachariah,” Charlie was shaking behind him, Dean was startled to realize, and tightened his grip around her. 

“You’re angry, Dean,” Cas muttered, “Because you think I do not trust you or because I think myself better than you because I’m Viridian.” 

He was drawing a sigil, Dean saw, in the air, moving his caduceus in a slow, long movement. He waved his hands over them, backing them towards the well, and Dean’s heart leapt. 

“Aha!” Zachariah’s smug voice came from inside the hut, “A Fallen man! Snuck across the borders of Viridia, did you? Surely, you must be with that dark sorcerer masquerading as our High Paladin - is this sort of men you consort with, Missouri? No wonder your boy rots in our morgue.” 

An anguished whimper left Charlie’s lips, even as Sam yelled out loudly - the sound of shackled slapping into place resounded within the hut, and Dean’s heart sank. 

Sam was being  _ arrested _ . 

His every instinct screamed, yelled at him to get to his brother -  _ protect Sam, keep him safe, Sammy’s the first priority -  _

Cas finished tracing the sigil for  _ bubble _ , following it up with a series of sigils that were too fast for Dean to see. 

“Where is he?” Zachariah demanded, “Where is the traitor? Where did he steal our princess to?” 

“Go to hell, you miserable bastard!” Balthazar spat. 

“I will go and give myself over so that Sam is not killed,” Castiel said. He paused for a second, eyes softening as they slid over Charlie, and then he nodded firmly. “I  _ trust  _ you, Dean,” he continued quietly. “I will make sure that Sam is safe - and I trust you will do the same with the princess of Viridia.”

Before Dean or Charlie could protest, he pushed them into the well, both of them flailing together and falling inside. Something long and metallic fell in after them, hitting Dean’s head, and he grabbed at it blindly, yanking Charlie above him in an instinctive, desperate attempt to keep her safe.  

A moment later, the soldiers thundered out to see Castiel standing calmly over the well, hands thrown above his hands, his caduceus nowhere to be seen. 

“I killed her,” he confessed as Zachariah walked past them, glaring at the paladin. “Princess Charlie is dead. See for yourself.” 

“Arrest him,” Zachariah ordered. Two of Roman’s trainees - one Castiel recognized vaguely as a man named  _ Edgar  _ \- snapped the paladin’s hands together with the shackles. An agonizing yell escaped his lips as they fell into place; too late, he recognized the sigil for  _ block  _ carved into the metal.  _ They were magic-blocking cuffs, _ he realized. He could feel his magic, feel it buzzing beneath his skin, but he couldn't get to it - that was the taunt of the shackles, letting the wearer know that the power to escape was just beyond their grasp. 

“She’s dead,” he repeated dully. “I killed her. The Regent will never get to her.” 

Zachariah growled impatiently, kicking him to the side, before leaning in to the well. As Castiel said, all he could see was a curtain of red hair floating about in the water, a small, female body lying cold and dead inside. 

“Let it be known,” the Prime Minister announced. “That High Paladin Castiel is traitor to the Crown, who not only brought dark magic into the sacred Sanctum of the Sun, but has also now killed the very princess of Viridia herself. On charges of high treason,” he smirked smugly, “I order him arrested.”

He turned back to the soldiers, a number of whom were dumbstruck at the thought of their princess dead. The two holding him weren’t as upset, Castiel noted somewhat sourly, they were clearly part of Marv’s circle. 

“Take him back to the castle,” Zachariah ordered. “The Regent will deal with him as he sees fit.” 

“Cas?” Sam whispered a bit desperately as they were pushed forward, out of the hut in shackles, for all of Viridia to see. “Cas, where’s  _ Dean _ ?” 

“He’s alive,” the paladin reassured him. 

The  _ for now _ went unsaid, shimmering in the air between them with all the force of a wisp’s angry glow.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 14**

Castiel gasped as icy water splashed across his face, yanking him out of the dreamless sleep he’d finally slipped into last night. His entire body hurt, burns and blisters from Roman’s torture beginning to fester from the poor treatment they offered after they were done with him. 

Across him, he caught sight of Sam’s similarly tired form, shackled to the wall behind him, before he was hidden from view by Zachariah’s smug face. Castiel glared up at him weakly, rolling his eyes when the Prime Minister hissed angrily. 

“There’s someone to meet you,” he sneered. “ _ Your Grace. _ ” 

“I’m not telling you anything,” he repeated wearily. “Do what you want.” 

“I think you’ll find, Castiel,” came the silky voice of the Regent from behind Zachariah. Castiel tensed, ignoring the way his wounds burned - by the  _ Sun _ , he was going to kill this man remorselessly. 

“That you must talk to me,” he finished, offering what Castiel supposed was a kind smile. “You have locked the Inner Sanctum with your own blood. Hannah tells me that you’re the only one who can open it - do it, Castiel. Please.” 

The paladin blinked in surprise - did he really think asking  _ politely  _ was going to undo all the evil he’d committed over decades? 

“I’d rather cut my own hands off,” he snapped back. “Do with me what you will, Marv, but I will not aid your dark magics any longer.” 

Marv’s pleasant expression vanished, and he pushed past Zachariah, hissing violently. “You use blood-magic, and you call  _ me  _ dark?” 

“Using blood without consent makes it dark,” he retorted, “I used my own blood - I locked it to keep it safe of the taint that you sent to it.” 

There was a madness in those eyes, Castiel noted, an anger and a rage so deep, it was terrifying. And despite his outward bravado, the paladin’s heart was thudding with fear - was Charlie alright? 

_ Was Dean?  _

Across him, he could hear Sam groan in pain, and his chest swelled up with guilt - he’d promised Dean to keep his brother safe, but he’d failed miserably. 

Three days. 

Three whole days, they’d been held here, kept prisoner away from everyone else. Their guard, this time, was not someone so nice as Inias, who Castiel learnt, had unwittingly given them away after Roman had tortured him once Charlie had disappeared. 

Thrown to the dungeons like dogs, they’d been stripped of their weapons, of their very clothes, and held captive - Roman came down to torture them gleefully at least once a day, laughing manically as he branded hot irons into their skins, dumping icy water over their wounds and then watching them as they writhed in pain. 

What happened to Balthazar and Missouri, neither of them knew - they hadn’t heard of the two in all their time here. Sam had pleaded for news of them the first day, only to be told that they were dead. And yet, Castiel couldn't believe that to be true; he  _ had  _ to hope, until he saw their bodies with his own eyes, because if there was one thing Roman was good at, it was breaking spirits. 

He couldn't allow his spirit to flag. 

But three days in, he wasn't sure how much longer he was going to last. 

_ Dean and Charlie,  _ he whispered to himself,  _ at least they were safe.  _ If things came to a head, he trusted the Dorcha to take her back to the Witherlands - as long as she remained alive, Viridia had hope. 

And as long as Dean remained alive,  _ Castiel  _ had hope. 

By the Sun,  _ why  _ hadn’t he allowed himself to admit his feelings for the Dorcha earlier on? They could’ve had so much time together, made love finally, slid into place next to each other instead of hiding like cowards. 

_ I’m in love with you, you dork! _ he could hear Dean’s voice echo in his head and he swallowed a sob of despair, refusing to admit how much he ached. 

“I see, my dear Paladin,” Marv said smoothly, “That you need a lesson in the history of Viridia and the history of magic.” 

He turned around, kicking Sam. The Fallen man groaned in pain, curling over himself and Castiel spat on the floor next to the Regent, growling slowly. 

“Don't touch him,” he snapped. Marv let out a small chuckle, turning back to Castiel. 

“Get them both to my chambers,” he ordered Zachariah, “The High Paladin and I need to have a chat.” 

Zachariah looked stunned. “But Milord,” he protested, “They’re-” 

“Are you questioning my orders, Zach?” there was a dangerous glint in his eyes and the bald Prime Minister gulped, shaking his head instantly. 

“Of course not, Sire,” he bowed low, almost falling over in his attempt to please him. “I will have them cleaned and brought up right away.”

“Good man!” he slapped Zachariah’s back, sending him tumbling to the ground with the force of it, and laughed out loud as he walked away, whistling happily. 

About an hour later, both Sam and Cas were sent up to Marv’s personal chambers, dressed in the most ragged of clothes - a pair of torn breeches for Castiel, along with a simple tunic. Sam wasn’t given even that, just trousers, and the High Paladin held back a scowl as he wrapped an arm around his friend’s waist to support him forward. 

_ The Regent would pay, _ he swore. Sam stumbled forward, whimpering softly - Roman’s soldiers had treated him worse because of his status as Fallen. Even those that weren’t completely loyal to Marv had let themselves go, rationalizing his pain as being deserved due to his blood; the intrinsic reverence they held for the paladins, and the High Paladin at that, had protected Castiel in a way it hadn’t Sam. 

This was why Viridia needed to open her borders again; they needed to see that  the Fallen were as much people as Viridians were. 

“Castiel,” Marv greeted, raising a goblet to him. “Have a seat, my friend. This is just like old times, isn't it?” 

“What do you want, Marv?” Castiel growled back. 

The Regent tilted the goblet at him, indicating that he should take a seat at the table opposite him. Looking around, Castiel realized that his chambers had been set up to host guests like it often was - the table was arranged with a feast fit for kings, wine overflowing and the dishes placed in front of him polished to a sparkling shine. 

How many times had he himself dined here like this? How many times had he argued with Marv over governance, over taxes and policy? 

How had he not known that Marv was a murderer all through those years? 

“Let us wine and dine first, shall we, Cas?” he said casually. “Sit.” 

There was a note of warning in his tone. Castiel glared defiantly as he seated himself in the chair opposite the Regent, lowering Sam carefully into the chair next to his own. Sam groaned, slumping over the table, and Castiel shot him a worried look, wondering if the younger Winchester was even conscious enough to know what was happening. 

“Quite the brainless lump, isn’t he?” Marv smirked. “But then, he  _ is  _ a member of the Fallen tribe - I suppose we can hardly expect better from dark sorcerers.” 

“Watch your tongue,” Castiel snapped. “Or I shall not hesitate to cut it.” 

“My, my,” Marv chuckled. “What a violent temper! Consorting with the Fallen truly has unlocked the dark magic within you, has it not?” 

“If you’re so against the use of dark magic, then why do you practice it?” Castiel said through gritted teeth. “Let’s drop all pretenses, shall we? You wished to talk -  so talk. What do you want?”

Marv looked taken aback for a moment, sipping on his goblet and eyeing Castiel cautiously before smiling. 

“I guess I should’ve known better than to underestimate the High Paladin of the country,” he said ruefully. “You wish to drop pretenses. The truth is, Castiel, that I want a kingdom where people can live in peace, where no one cowers in fear of dark magic.”

“As long as the Witherlands exist, this fear shall persist,” he continued, casting a distasteful look at the barely conscious Sam. “These people, descended from Lucifer himself… they must be excised fully.” 

“Then why kill Her Majesty?” Castiel persisted.

“Gertrude wouldn't listen to me,” he snarled suddenly. “She wanted to reopen negotiations, offer scholarships to students from the Witherlands, to bring them here - it was why she rode out there so often, you know.” 

“So you killed her?” 

Marv shrugged. “I did what had to be done. One thing you should know about power, Your Grace, is that it comes with the burden of responsibility - I cannot hesitate to kill if it means protecting my people.” 

“Only they are not your people to protect,” Castiel hissed. “You took the throne underhandedly - you’re a murderer.” 

The Regent waved his hand dismissively. “Semantics,” he grunted. “What is medicine in one dose is poison in another, surely you realize that?” 

“If you loathe dark magic so much,” Castiel repeated, “then why do you employ it? I felt it in my Sanctum. And don't pretend it was Samandriel who brought it inside. You and I both know he did not possess the ability to wield such powerful magic.” 

“We must fight fire with fire,” he answered. “I may hate dark magic, but there is no other power stronger, which is why I take on the burden myself - best to have  _ my  _ soul darkened.” 

Looking closely at him, Castiel was startled to realize that he truly believed what he was saying. His hunger for power wasn’t simply a need to seize the throne - he genuinely loathed the Fallen, genuinely wanted for them to wiped out of existence altogether. 

Troubled, the paladin clenched his fists. Next to him, Sam groaned, turning his face over to Castiel. His eyes were bloodshot, looking utterly weary. 

“Truly, Castiel,” Marv continued, “I might not have had the strength to do what I had to if not for this.” He stood, setting the goblet back on the table, and walked back to his desk, pulling out the drawer. 

“My sister-in-law was too kind,” he said, “Always wanting to see the best in people. When she proposed reopening talks with the Witherlands, I knew  _ something  _ had to be done - what would my late brother, may the Sun rest his soul, say? He knew the importance of policing the borders, to make sure that the Fallen did not sully Viridian blood. I knew I had to do something, but I wasn’t aware what.”

He turned back to Castiel, who froze as he saw what the Regent was holding - a scroll, old and tattered. 

_ The prophecy.  _

Marv walked back to the table and opened the scroll, spreading it across the flat surface. There was a strange, angry light on his face - it terrified Castiel to see it. He glanced over at Sam, who was breathing heavily, biting his lips. 

“This painting,” Marv said, “Is a prediction of the future - you see that, Cas? See how the Dorcha and the High Paladin will ruin the land? How can the Queen bow to a filthy Necromancer?” 

Despite himself, Castiel glanced over at the painting, heart thudding in his chest. To his surprise, it wasn’t dark - it was  _ beautiful.  _

The colors had faded over time, but the image was clear. As Alfie had described it, it depicted a redheaded queen, kneeling with her face bowed in front of the Dorcha and the High Paladin. The Dorcha’s Mark was clearly visible, glowing a bright golden, and the Paladin’s caduceus carried the insignia of the country, an indication of their respective offices. 

Btu it wasn’t that which drew Castiel’s attention - it was the darkness surrounding the man who was clearly Regent, held back by the queen’s men, even as he attempted to escape. 

This was what Marv feared, what he’d killed Samandriel for. 

But the Regent wasn’t done. He pushed the scroll out, peeling the top layer off, and Castiel’s eyes widened in realization - there was more than one scroll. 

The prophecy Samandriel had seen wasn’t complete. 

The second scroll contained two images, divided into two exact halves with a line that split it in the middle. The image on the left was that of the redheaded queen sitting on the throne of Viridia. The Dorcha stood to her left, Mark displayed as proudly as the circlet on his brow. The High Paladin stood to her right, holding his caduceus up in joy over her head as though in blessing - it was, in every way, an image of joy. 

The other image was just as terrifying as this was hopeful. Instead of the queen, the Regent sat on the throne, a cruel smirk on his face. The Dorcha was kneeling at his feet, as was the High Paladin, both of them shackled. The redheaded queen was nowhere to be seen. 

With a growing sense of horror, Castiel realized what he was seeing - these were two different versions of the future, two different outcomes that followed the first image. 

“The future,” Marv whispered, “As you see, isn’t set in stone. There are a million different possibilities. I knew that if i didn’t do something, then we could end up with a choice that would ruin the purity of Virida - that would destroy all that King Michael worked to build - all that I fought to build when Lucifer was banished.” 

“Which is why,” he looked up at Castiel, expression serious, all traces of joviality gone now, “You must unlock the Sanctum, and give me access to the Sword of Life. I must finish what Michael started, excise his great line of the Fallen.” His eyes went dark for a long moment before he smiled at the paladin, as though confiding a secret to a close friend. 

“I won’t,” Castiel swore. “You have already defiled my Altar with your darkness - I will won’t  allow you to touch the Sword. I will die before I let that happen.” 

“That can be arranged,” Marv said calmly. He lifted a single finger and traced the sigil for  _ choke  _ into the air in front of him. Castiel watched in confusion - one couldn’t use the magic of the sigils without one’s blood. Even his caduceus only worked because it was linked to his magic with his blood and when he wielded his magic without it, he was tapping into raw power, which could burst out dangerously. 

How did Marv plan to -

His vision suddenly went dark, and it was so tight, _ so tight,  _ he couldn't breathe _ , he couldn't,  _ it hurt -

Next to him, Sam gurgled, clawing at his neck with his fingers, gasping heavily. 

Marv snapped his fingers, and just as suddenly as it had started, the fit stopped. Castiel forced breathfuls of sweet air into his lungs, panting, and glared back at the Regent.

“No,” his voice as firm as it was hoarse, “I will not unlock the Sanctum.” 

Marv considered him for a long moment, and then nodded, a bit sadly. 

“Then you will die,” he said softly. “Public execution of the traitor who killed the princess - thank you for that, by the way. You completed my work for me.”

Before Castiel could retort, two soldiers were already marching into the room and yanking him up, his shackles tightening. Watching as they manhandled Sam into a standing position, he struck out one last time, desperate. 

“I’ll do it,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll open the Sanctum,  _ if _ you let Sam go.” 

Marv barked out an easy laugh. “He’s  Fallen, Castiel,” he said kindly, as though explaining something to a stubborn child. “Whether you open the Sanctum or not, he is doomed. And so are you - you have shown me that you cannot be trusted.” 

He paused, considering it a long moment. “Still,” he said, “I suppose…” 

“You want the Sword,” Castiel urged, “What difference is one Fallen going to make?” 

“You realize, of course,” Marv said, “That once I receive the Sword, I shall kill them all nonetheless?” 

Castiel inclined his head tersely, unable to say anything. Marv frowned, staring at Sam for a long moment before he shrugged and nodded. 

“Well, alright then!” he clapped his hands. “I shall let your let little Fallen man go if you open the Sanctum for me.” 

“Very well,” Castiel agreed. “It is decided then.” 

“Alright boys,” Marv gestured towards the door, “Drop the Fallen off where you found him. And get the High Paladin back to his old chambers - poor chap must rest up before he can cast the spell after all!”

Sam hissed as they were led out, lifting his head weakly towards Castiel. 

“Cas,” he muttered weakly, “Cas, you can't,” he tried to push beyond the shackles, but the guards in front of them yanked on them and he let out an agonizing yell as it tightened around him, almost cutting off his blood circulation. 

“Sam? Sam!” 

A moment later, Sam gulped in air forcefully, weakly stumbling along. He had tears rolling down his face, sweat dripping down the sides of his body, which Castiel saw, was marred with blisters and burns and wounds. 

His heart ached and he reached out to pat his back as much as he could with his hands tied together. 

“Cas,” he hissed wearily, “The Regent, he’s not- you can’t be-”

“I know, Sam,” Castiel murmured. Sam shook his head urgently. 

“No, you don't,” he insisted, “Cas, he’s- he’s not who you think-”

“I know,” Castiel stressed, cutting him off. Sam’s eyes flew to his, widening and Castiel tilted his head, quietly waiting for the realization to sink in. 

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Then why-?” he whispered furiously. 

“Because you need to get to Dean,” he muttered as low as he could, casting a wary glance at their guards. “He’s the only one who can stop Marv and get Charlie on to the throne.” 

“Cas, I-”

“Sam, please.  _ Go.”  _

Before the younger Winchester could protest any further, the guards, sneering, yanked him forward. Sam stumbled, yelping, and Castiel growled under his breath, feeling more helpless than he ever had. 

“I’ll be alright, Sam!” he called. “Just go!” 

“Some High Paladin,” the guard holding his chains snorted. “Using dark magic?” he spat next to Castiel in disgust.

“Cas!” 

As Sam was dragged away, their eyes met one last time. Castiel tilted his head in reassurance and Sam nodded tearfully, gulping to himself as the guards took him out of the castle, tying him to his horse to dump him at Missouri’s. 

“You would truly let your own Sanctum be defiled for the life of a Fallen?” the guard spoke up, eyeing Castiel with suspicion.

The paladin snorted. 

“Life is Life,” he said quietly, “No matter who it belongs to. I honor the Sword of Life by ensuring that an innocent man doesn’t die needlessly when I could prevent it.” 

The guard fell silent, but Castiel was already looking beyond him, his chest swollen with both fear and hope. 

Because for that one instant in Marv’s chambers, both of he and Sam had seen the same thing - the Regent’s eyes turned  _ black _ , the same as Dean’s had when Samandriel possessed him. And from the way he spoke… there was no doubt in Castiel’s mind who the spirit could be. 

And the only ones in all of Viridia who knew how to handle the apparitions of Death come to Life were Sam and Dean. 

_ By the Sun, _ Castiel prayed, _ please let Sam get to Dean in time.  _

*-*-*

Finding a safe haven soon after Sam and Cas and the rest were captured proved challenging for a number of reasons, not least of which was that the soldiers would soon be back to search for their ‘fallen’ princess’s body. 

Dean had gulped in huge mouthfuls of air as he climbed out of the well, holding a hand out to Charlie so she could leap out next to him. Neither of them were wet - Cas’s spell had trapped them in a bubble of air while drawing the illusion of a drowned, singular body, which meant they were both dry and able to breathe. If he was panting, it was because of his instinctual response to being submerged under water; his logical mind told him that he was safe, but his subconscious insisted on being freaked out by nearly drowning. 

Charlie had gotten to her feet immediately, briskly pulling Dean to his feet. “We need to get outta here,” she insisted and the Dorcha had agreed. 

The only question was where they would go. Neither of them could be seen in the streets; she was the ‘dead’ princess and he was the Dorcha of the Witherlands, no doubt they’d be pelted on sight. 

“What if,” Charlie had speculated slowly. “We hide in plain sight?” 

Dean had frowned at her in response, drawing his cloak around her tighter and throwing the hood up to hide her hair - that crimson color was as good a beacon as any.

“How?” 

“Can you glamour me?” she’d demanded. Dean had shrugged; glamour spells weren’t his speciality, but he did know the basics. 

“I guess,” he said, “but it ain’t a long-term solution. Glamour spells last five, maybe six hours at the most. You’d have to keep renewing them and constantly using magic like that could drain you.” 

“We don't need more than a single glamour,” she said. “At least, I don’t think.”

“What’d you have in mind?” 

“Across the street,” she waved to the entrance of the hut, “Is an inn. Glamour me now, hide your Mark, and we could just be a random pair traveling across the country. I can fake an illness and stay inside the room while you do reconnaissance outside till we can figure out how to bust the rest of ‘em out.”

“Soundin’ a little weak there, princess,” he’d growled. “My brother’s taken captive - Cas is the paladin, but Sam’s a  _ Fallen _ , you think-” 

“Cas confessed to  _ murdering  _ his princess, Dean,” Charlie’d snapped back just as harshly. “What do you think is the punishment for such a crime?” 

He fell silent then, remembering the Viridians had shut down the borders mercilessly at the murder of their queen - and then, there had been no confession, not even a real Necromancer they could pinpoint, just the hearsay of a few soldiers who’d sworn they’d seen the queen killed by a Fallen. 

“He’s…” Charlie’s voice broke, and for a moment, she looked like the eighteen year old girl she really was. Dean sighed, reaching out to wrap his arms around her, hugging her to him and palming the back of her head like he often did with Jo. 

“This is all my fault,” her voice was muffled, but Dean simply tucked her close to him and held her for a long moment. They were running out of time - the soldiers could come back at any second to retrieve her body, but he knew that she needed a moment. 

So did he to be honest.

“Cas loves you,” he said softly. “He’s trying to protect you.”

“And he’s been doin’ it since I was born,” she sniffled. “He needs to fucking stop - when is he gonna think about himself?” 

Dean hid a grin as he recognized the familiar scowl on her face. It was the same one Sam wore when he was laying into Dean for being an overprotective elder brother. 

“He can't help it, kiddo,” he replied. “That’s what big brothers do.” 

“Fucking men and their macho posturing,” she grumbled and Dean barked out a laugh, ruffling her hair fondly. From her tone, it sounded like a regular pet peeve for her. 

“You sayin’ you wouldn't do the same for him?” he teased back. She fell silent, pursing her lips and he knew he’d won the debate.

“Alright,” he sighed, “I’ll cast a glamour on you - on one condition,” he countered when she turned to him with a grin, “You listen to everything I say.” 

She made an annoyed face. “But-”

“Cas trusted your safety to me, Charlie,” he told her seriously. “Not to mention you’re the heir to the throne. If you die, Virdia is doomed - you have no declared heirs and there’s already a Regent in place. I don't have to tell you how this looks.” 

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “You’re right,” she allowed, “but I don't like it.”

“Welcome to adulthood, Your Highness,” he shrugged. Pulling out his Blade, he considered her for a moment. She raised an eyebrow and he held it out to her, smiling sheepishly. 

“Your hair,” he said quietly. 

Her expression turned dark, but she didn't protest, taking the Blade from him and running her hand over it. The Mark pulsed for a moment, and Dean jumped, staring at it in surprise - it had never reacted to anyone touching the Blade before, and he wondered if it sensed their common blood. 

Without a word, she yanked on her hair and slid the Blade through it, cutting it off so short, she looked like a young boy with long hair instead of a princess. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, but Dean didn't comment as he took the Blade back and gently turned her around, patting her shoulders. 

“I can get the rest,” he told her softly. At a shaky jerk of her head, he quickly trimmed the rest of her hair, cutting the length evenly before stepping back and cleaning the Blade free of all crimson strands. 

Quickly, he pricked his finger and drew the sigil for the glamour spell. Charlie watched, lower lip trembling, and Dean was startled to realize that there was no fear of his magic on her face, only regret for her lost hair. 

He turned  her red hair dark and bound her small breasts, so she really did look like a young boy.

“Now you can be  _ my  _ apprentice,” he grinned and she offered him a watery smile as he drew a glamour over his own arm to hide the Mark. Dirtying up their clothes, they quickly took the guises of travelers, patting themselves down quickly. The hair they picked up and threw into the well, along with Charlie’s cloak, her breeches and her tunic, hoping that they’d think that her body had been washed away into the river.

“We need to get outta here,” Charlie said as the sounds of horses thundering down the road reached their ears. 

“Let’s go,” Dean caught her arm and pulled her out, both of them exiting Missouri’s hut just as Marv’s men returned, stomping in to find the princess’s body. 

Dean had marched them into the inn as though he’d owned the place and played the  role of traveling swordsman with ease, Charlie posing as his erstwhile apprentice. They were given a room that looked fortuitously right out into the street and since then, they’d been keeping an eye out, trying to come up with a plan to save their friends. 

Despite Dean’s insistence that they not reveal her identity to anyone, Charlie had begun to send out carrier pigeons to those she was sure were loyal. She hadn’t signed any of these letters, but she had stamped them with the seal from her ring, knowing that anyone who was truly on her side would know who was reaching out to them. Dean hadn’t liked it, but he’d backed down when she pointed out that they had no allies and they needed fighters if they were to take Marv down. 

And still, they had no solid plan. 

Soldiers continued to thunder up and down the streets, and the commonfolk began to talk about the dark High Paladin who’d murdered the princess. A sense of pandemonium threatened the population - many were in mourning, Charlie was gratified to see, openly crying for their princess and calling for justice to be served in the form of Cas’s death. Of course, the last bit she was worried about, knowing that Marv could use it as an excuse to justify executing Cas. 

It was on the third day when something finally happened. Dean was meditating on the bed when the castle guards rode back down into the town. She was watching from the window as she had been doing these past few days. They were holding a prone form between them, she realized with a sense of growing horror. 

Fucking  _ Roman  _ was leading the procession, a dark smile on his face - what wouldn't she give to knee him in the goddamned nuts? 

He manhandled the tall, broad form to his feet, and Charlie’s heart sank as she caught sight of the man’s face. 

“Sam!” she shrieked. Dean’s eyes shot open and he jumped off the bed, racing over to where she was pressed against the window. 

“Where?” he demanded. She pointed to where Roman was dragging his brother towards Missouri’s house. A small crowd gathered, watching curiously, but the guards ignored them, pulling Sam inside. The hut had been cordoned off by the castle since they’d escaped, but now, Roman left it open, disappearing inside, gesturing for his men to bring Sam in. 

“You don’t think- he isn't-” Charlie stammered, feeling her heart jump into her mouth. 

“No,” Dean snapped harshly. “He’s okay, he’s gotta be.” 

As if he’d heard him, Sam groaned softly, and a guard kicked him in the shin, laughing loudly. 

“You filthy Fallen,” he sneered, “You’re going to stay here until His Grace opens the Sanctum, but after that…” he trailed off, barking out an angry laugh. A collective gasp ran through the crowd gathered outside, people clucking their tongues at Sam. 

“Murderer!” someone cried, and the chant went through the whole crowd like they were a pack of rabid dogs. 

_ “Murderer, murderer, murderer!”  _

Dean clenched his fist, growling low under his breath. Charlie shot him a wary look, biting her lip and he refused to meet her eyes, knowing she was as much part of the problem as she was the solution. 

“Dean,” she said quietly, reaching out a hand to him. He shrugged her off, watching as Sam was dragged into the hut, the door swinging shut behind the two guards. The crowd dispersed soon after, still mumbling curses against the Fallen under their breath. 

“Dean,” she reached out again, but the Dorcha stomped back to the bed, his body rigid with rage. Fuck, but this was Viridia’s response to a single Fallen man - how would they ever accept the Dorcha as Cas’s partner? 

How could they ever displace the barriers separating them? 

And Sam… his brother…  _ motherfucker _ , he was hurting and Dean couldn't even go to him right now. 

“Dean,” the princess called and he growled - she was the reason he couldn't save Sam. 

“Not now, Charlie,” he snapped and she reached out to slap the back of his head. Startled, he glared back at her and hissed, grabbing her arm in retaliation. 

“The fuck?” he snarled. She rolled her eyes, pulling her arm back. 

“You’re pissed,” she said. “I geddit. Now listen to you me. How many do you think are guarding him?” 

Dean blinked. “Uh…” 

“Dean,” she said slowly, “How many guards did we see go in?” 

“Three,” he answered automatically. “What does that have to do with- oh.” 

She smiled crookedly. “Yes,” she agreed.  _ “Oh.”  _

He eyed her calculatively. “They’re seasoned warriors,” he warned her. She shrugged in response, smirking back. 

“Cas and I didn't just play around with dollies,” she replied. “I’m almost as good with a blade as he is and he can take any of these boys down blindfolded.” 

He whistled in appreciation, looking up and down her small form. “The Regent let you? As princess and all?”

“No one  _ lets  _ me do anything, Dean,” she told him loftily. “I bugged Cas until he gave in - and once we got going, there was no way he wasn’t teaching me properly, so…” she shrugged and Dean grinned. 

“Alright, then, princess,” he said. “Let’s see what you can do.” 

He threw over one of the spare swords he carried with him always. Charlie caught it easily, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Really?” she asked. 

“I’m responsible for you,” he said. “Cas will have my ass if I let you get hurt.” 

“You sure you  _ don't  _ want him to have your ass?” she smirked, unsheathing the blade. Dean snorted, and took a fighting stance, pointing the First Blade at her. 

“Yes,” he grinned lasciviously, “but if he’s biting my ass, then it’s because he’s eatin’ it out, not cuz I got you killed.” 

She made a face at the vivid description and charged him, letting herself go. 

*-*-*

The plan went off without a hitch. Dean glamoured them both invisible to the naked eye and they snuck into Missouri’s hut together. The soldiers never saw what was coming before they had them in their grip - Charlie insisted that they not kill any of the soldiers, if only because they needed information on Marv.

The spell wasn’t easy to maintain, which was why he dropped it the second they had the men had been captured and tied up. Charlie’s skills with a sword were impressive for a woman of her station and she stood guard over the men she’d captured. Roman spat on the ground next to the princess and she simply kicking his shin with a smirk. 

“ _ Dick _ ,” she said sweetly. “Unless you want me to cut your balls off… shut the fuck up.” 

Dean snickered and she winked at him, gesturing to the pallet, where Sam lay, panting quietly. The elder Winchester raced over to his brother, dropping to his knees and patting his face gently.

“Sam?” he called urgently, “Sam!” 

Sam coughed, eyes opening tiredly. He gasped when he caught sight of Dean and Charlie, shooting up and then groaning softly, clutching at his arms. For the first time, the Dorcha noted the wounds littering his body and growled softly, clenching his fists. 

“Shit, Sam,” Charlie cried, moving to him, but Sam shook his head, raising a hand to her. 

“I’m fine, Your Highness,” he said softly. He turned to Dean, a serious expression on his face. “Dean,” he said, “It’s bad.”

“Sam,” Charlie asked, “Where’s Cas? He isn’t… he can't…” 

Dean’s heart sank at the look of weary exhaustion on Sam’s face. Behind him, he heard Roman snigger, and his sword slipped out of his grasp, falling to the floor with a loud clang. He clutched at his brother’s shoulders, shaking him harshly. 

“Sam,” he said urgently, “Cas isn't… what’d that bastard do?” 

Because Cas couldn't fucking  _ die _ , dammit. Not now, not just when they were beginning something. 

He couldn't die - that bastard couldn't do that to Dean. 

Sam caught his hand in his own and patted it, shaking his head. “He was alive,” he replied hoarsely, “When I left… Marv doesn’t wanna kill him. At least not yet.” 

“What does he want then?” Charlie spoke up. Sam looked up, meeting her gaze squarely. 

“The heart of Viridia,” he answered. “The Sword of Life - that Cas has locked away with his own blood.” 

“Motherfucker,” Dean swore. 

“But that’s not all,” Sam continued. “Dean, Cas made a deal - he told Marv he’d open the Sanctum if he let me go.” 

“That son of a bitch,” Dean whispered. “Goddess’s tits, Sam, how could he be so stupid?” 

“Because he had no choice,” Sam said. “Because one of us had to get out to tell you.” 

“Tell us what?” Charlie demanded. Sam paused, the silence ominously ringing between them for a long moment.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was a flat order and his brother winced. 

“Marv’s possessed,” he said quietly. “And I think…” he hesitated and then continued, “I think he’s possessed by the spirit of Metatron.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 15**

Balthazar grunted as he kicked off his shackles, twisting to the side to let the iron fall off. Unlike the ones Cassie and Sam probably wore, his were a little less elaborate and more utilitarian - he didn't have magic, after all, which meant that he wasn’t going to be very much trouble. 

Or so his captors had thought. 

But Balthazar wasn’t the princess’s personal guard for nothing. He’d been personally handpicked by Joshua when the princess was still a plump-faced, sweet child for his prowess - he’d watched her and Castiel grow up together, guarding her from the sidelines while training new recruits within the castle guards. 

No simple iron shackle was going to keep  _ him  _ locked up. 

Kicking the damn thing to the side, he pulled back the pin he’d twisted out of the single earring he always wore -  _ how stupid, _ he sneered, _ of the guards who hadn’t even stripped him properly. _ Anything could be used as a weapon, in his experience - you just had to know how. Tip-toeing to the bars of his cell, he set about using the pin to pick the lock. It wasn’t easy, particularly from this side of the lock, but he managed - within half an hour, the gate creaked open and he was free. 

The Regent hadn’t perceived him to be threat enough to be locked away separately as he had Cassie and Sam, which meant that he was housed in the parts of the dungeons that were kept open for the smaller crimes such as petty theft. The guards stood at the entrance of the level, none of the cells warranting individual protection - which worked out in his favor, because he could simply sneak past the few sleeping prisoners. 

He looked about for Missouri, heart leaping when he found her dozing in a cell two blocks down his own. He rapped gently on the bars, trying to get her to wake without giving himself away - she startled, eyes widening as he quickly shushed her. Holding up a hand, he motioned for her to stay back while he picked the lock. Within moments, she was free as well, tip-toeing outside to throw her arms around him in quiet relief. 

“What’s goin’ on?” she asked in a low voice. 

Balthazar tilted his head towards the entrance, where they could hear the guards murmuring in a low tone. 

“Can you fight?” he said under his breath. 

A savage smile came upon her face; she might be old, but she sure as hell wasn’t helpless. If Balthazar’s memory served, there were usually two guards posted outside this level as sentries - they wouldn't be hard to disarm, but they still needed to be careful. If they made noise, or if the guards yelled out warnings before they incapacitated them, they would both be back under lock and key instantly, and this time, he had a feeling they would be taken as serious threats. 

“I ain’t helpless, boy,” Missouri hissed and Balthazar nodded. A part of him was uneasy about letting her into the fray, but he had no choice - they needed to get out, and fast. 

Creeping out to the entrance, Balthazar waved his hand at the guard on the left. Missouri didn't even flinch; she simply side-stepped the guard that he had marked for himself and twisted her leg in a long, round-about moved, tripping the man. He went down with a yelp, but she quickly slapped her hand over his mouth, sitting on him instantly - she was heavy enough that he went down with a grunt, unable to move at all. 

Balthazar held back a snort at the sight even as he neatly ducked below the punch thrown at his face and caught the man’s arm, twisting it behind his back and holding him tightly. 

“Neat trick,” he told her and she shrugged. 

“Don't sass me, boy,” she remarked. “Got the job done, didn’t it?” 

“Just admiring your technique, Milady,” he bowed. The guard in front of him opened his mouth to retort angrily, but Balthazar held his hand over his mouth, grabbing his sword to hold it to his throat. 

“Here’s what is going to happen,” he said pleasantly. “You’re gonna take me to my old room within the castle and we’re going to have a nice, long chat, understood?” 

“Won't you be recognized if you go into the castle right now?” Missouri pointed out. 

Balthazar shrugged. “That’s why,” he smirked, “We’re stripping him.” he nodded his head at the guard she was sitting on. 

“And me?” she snarked. 

He paused, considering it for a moment, and then sighed. “You trust me, Milady?” he asked softly. 

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna make me hostage,” she speculated and he offered her a terse nod. 

“Just pretend,” he said. “Just until we get into my rooms and I send for help.” 

She frowned. “Who’s gonna help us now?” she asked. “Your Regent has pretty much convinced the entire country that the High Paladin is a traitor. The princess is missin’ and we’re stuck here.” 

“We’re going to the second most powerful paladin in the castle,” Balthazar told her. 

“Whossat?” 

“Not many people know this,” he told her, “But the paladins are actually an independant body - they owe their allegiance to the High Paladin, not the Crown.  _ He  _ allies himself to the ruling leader, not them.”

“Still not seein’ how this helps us,” she crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Because in Cassie’s absence, command of the paladin falls to the Lady Hannah. And stiff-necked though she is, I bet my arse that she’s on the princess’s side.” 

“Lady Hannah would never consort to black magic!” the man Balthazar held -  _ Edgar _ , he recalled vaguely - spat. The blonde man simply rolled his eyes and kneed his prisoner in the nuts, watching with a smirk as he fell to the ground with a groan. 

“No one asked you, smartarse,” he said. 

“You sure we can trust this girl?” Missouri pressed. 

Balthazar shrugged. “I’m not sure of anything right now, Missouri,” he admitted. “But what choice do we have? We can take that risk, or,” he nodded back at the dungeons, “we could sit around and twiddle our thumbs inside. I, for one, am not gonna back down.” 

She snorted. 

“If you’re goin’ on this foolhardy adventure,” she sighed, “I’m comin’... haven’t got anythin’ more to lose, have I?” 

_ She hid it well,  _ he thought, but the loss of her grandson was very visible in the way she held herself, in her gait and her voice. 

Quietly, they stripped the guard she was sitting on, knocking him out with a well-aimed punch and Balthazar exchanged clothes with him easily. Grabbing the helmet, he threw it on - whoever saw him would probably assume that he was one of the zealous new-recruits, wearing it at night, but better to be laughed at than discovered. Edgar glowered at them from his spot, but neither of them paid him much attention as they snapped shackles on Missouri’s hands, keeping them loose enough that she could slip out easily.

Once they were done, he grabbed Edgar’s arm and arranged the three of them so they were walking in a single file. Missouri held the guard’s smaller dagger in her hands, rolling it over so it was hidden between her fingers, and kept it pressed to the small of his back. Her shackles were attached to his own arm - tightly on his end - to prevent him running away, and Balthazar followed her, pretending to be her rear guard. 

Balthazar’s neck prickled as they made their way out of the dungeons. He made sure they steered clear of other guards and levels, knowing that the guards had a few tricks up their sleeves - a single hand-signal or coded nod could have them caught. Even after they were out of the dungeons and making their way into the castle, he was careful. It helped that most of the staff were asleep at this time, even if they were taking about twice as long to get to Hannah’s chambers. 

When they were finally at her doors, Missouri pushed Edgar in front, the tip of the dagger pressing into his back. 

“Go on, boy,” she hissed. “Knock.” 

“I won't-”

“Oh you will if you wanna live,” she pushed the dagger in, piercing through the chainmail he wore to touch his skin. He shivered and gulped, walking closer to bang on the paladin’s door. 

“Who is it?” a soft, sleepy voice called. 

Edgar glanced back at them. 

“Tell her it’s the Regent,” Balthazar said quickly. “That it’s urgent.” 

They needed her to let them in without spelling them captive or rousing any of the other guards; it was why Balthazar had decided to bring Edgar along once he’d decided to forego his own chambers. Taking a paladin down wasn’t easy - they needed the element of surprise, and then had to grab her caduceus off of her. As far as Balthazar knew, only Castiel could perform magic without it; Hannah wasn’t that strong. 

So when Edgar repeated what he was told, Balthazar tensed, tapping Missouri on the shoulder to push her aside. 

“Get ready,” he muttered. 

The door swung open and he pushed past Edgar to race inside, trusting the old woman to keep him in her grasp. Hannah let out a shrill scream, but he quickly grabbed her to him, twisting her arm around and slapping his hand over her mouth, both of them stumbling into the room, struggling. She bit his hand angrily, trying to get away and it was his turn to yelp, pulling his hand back. She rolled in his grasp, about to smack him in the head, when Missouri’s cool voice spoke up behind them. 

“Unless you want this broken, my girl,” she said, holding up Hannah’s caduceus with one hand and Edgar’s shackles with the other, “Let him go.” 

“You’re traitors,” she snarled back, “If you think you can keep me hostage-” 

Balthazar let go of her and stepped back, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Not here to hurt you, Hannah,” he said stiffly. “We just want to talk.” 

“And that’s why you attacked me,” she retorted. 

He grinned. “Would you have listened otherwise?” 

“Milady, they’re trying to overthrow the Regent,” Edgar snapped, “They're responsible for the princess’s death!” 

“Oh shut up,” Missouri kicked him disgustedly and then turned to Hannah, a serious expression on her face. “My boy  _ died  _ for you and your magic. You’re gonna listen, girl, because this is a lot bigger than you think.” 

Hannah’s expression softened for a moment. “I am sorry for that, Miss Moseley,” she said quietly, and then her voice turned hard again. “But that was because he was apprentice to a dark sorcerer - Castiel ruined him.” 

Balthazar stepped in front of her, meeting her eyes squarely. “Do you truly believe that, Hannah?” he asked. “Do you really think that Cassie of all people would practice dark magic?” 

“He murdered the princess!” she cried. 

“So the Regent says,” Balthazar countered. “But this is  _ Cassie _ . And Charlie - they’re as close as family. He practically raised her. You truly think he could hurt her?”

She looked away. “What I think doesn’t matter,” she answered in a low voice. “I must look at the evidence. And this is what I see.” 

“Because you don't got the full picture, girl,” Missouri spoke up. “Listen to the whole story, and maybe you’ll change your mind.” 

“Hannah,” Balthazar cajoled. “You’re not stupid. You  _ know  _ Cassie - you know he’d never hurt  _ Charlie  _ of all people. Please… just listen.” 

She turned troubled eyes to him. 

“Give me one hour,” he pleaded. “If you don't believe us, if we can't convince you…” he turned back to Missouri and plucked the caduceus from her grip, offering her a nod when she shot him a sharp look. 

“Here,” he handed it back to Hannah, “As a token of good faith. We don't want to harm you, we just want a chance. If you still don't believe us at the end of it, throw us back in the dungeon, no questions asked.” 

Ignoring Missouri’s yelp of protest behind him, he met Hannah’s probing gaze defiantly. For a long moment, she stood silent, considering him, before finally sighing and nodding, gripping her caduceus tightly. 

“Fine,” she muttered. “One chance.” 

She waved her hand about and pointed to the two chairs sitting by the desk opposite her bed. 

“Sit,” she ordered. “Start talking.” 

*-*-*

Castiel stumbled forward behind Marv wearily, his entire body aching. For the brief space of a night, he’d been given his own chambers and he’d rested on top of his own bed, falling asleep the second his head hit his pillow. But the rest didn't last long - come dawn, the soldiers had marched into his room without any regard for his privacy, ordering him dressed and dragging him out in shackles a second time. 

He obeyed without hesitation, hoping against hope that Sam had been able to get to Charlie and Dean. Despite last night’s respite, he was still tired; he was terrified of what was going to happen here on out. He had no choice but to open the Sanctum for the Regent - or whatever was possessing the Regent now. 

_ Metatron.  _

Castiel knew it was him - it  _ had  _ to be. That he had recognized the painting as a prophecy, despite how old it seemed… that he despised all the Fallen and wanted the Witherlands gone…

_ “Everything I’ve worked for since Lucifer was banished will be gone…” _

The words echoed in the paladin’s mind, leaving no room for doubt. 

Marv was Metatron - the same Metatron that had driven the wedge between brothers so many centuries ago, the same Metatron who’d convinced Michael that Lucifer’s powers were utterly evil, that Necromancy and the magic of Death were unnatural. 

And Castiel was helpless against the force of his powers. He could only go along, hoping that Sam had gotten to Dean and they were doing something about it. Without his caduceus and with these shackles on, he was utterly weak - he could feel his magic, just beyond his grip, but he couldn't use it, couldn't touch it. 

He’d never been without his magic before this. 

The thought wandered into his head as Marv led them down the hallway, stopping in front of the Sanctum. The massive doors that had Cas breathless with awe every time he saw them now made him curse inwardly - he couldn't do this. He couldn't defile this sacred space, it went against everything he’d ever believed. 

Marv would kill him as soon as the doors were open - he knew that as surely as he knew he loved Dean, as surely as he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the Dorcha. 

_ Would he ever get to see Dean again?  _

“You will open the doors, Castiel,” Marv -  _ Metatron  _ \- said silkily. “But the people must see what happens of those who would dare to consort with dark magic.” 

“You’re the one defiling the Altar,” Castiel retorted. 

The guard behind him reached out to slap Castiel on the head and the paladin yelped, pain shooting up the side of his skull as he spat out a globule of blood onto the pristine floor, having bitten his tongue accidentally. Before he could say anything else, the sounds of people filing into the room echoed down the hallway and Castiel froze, heart sinking in realization. 

Marv had opened the Sanctuary to the public today. 

Which meant that everyone would watch him use blood-magic openly and the common misconception would prove him dark. And Marv would march into the Sanctum, use his actual dark magic to displace the Sword from the stone and consolidate his power in the people’s eyes. 

There was nothing he could do. 

Tears of frustration stung his eyes and Castiel bit his lip in desperation. _ Please, _ he sent up a prayer, _ please, I beg of you…  _

There was no indication that anyone had heard. 

And Castiel could only watch as all the people he’d served faithfully for his whole life - first as a paladin’s apprentice, then as a paladin amongst the ranks, and finally as High Paladin - gathered to watch him fall from grace. 

“Today, my Viridians,” Marv announced. “We will see justice done. This man,” he pointed to where Castiel stood in chains, “Has defiled the our most sacred space and tried to flee Viridia when he was caught. But that was not his worst crime.” 

He paused theatrically, before continuing, “Oh no,” he shook his head. “He spent years cultivating a love of dark arts within our princess - he brainwashed her, taught her to fight and to trust in blood-magic! And in my haste to ensure that the defiler of the Sanctum be punished, I arrested our beloved Princess Charlie without proof.” 

He bowed his head and lowered his voice. “For that, Viridia, you have my sincerest apology. I was taken in by his dark magic, taken in by the deception he wove. Woe that I did not see! Woe that I did not listen - if I had, perhaps our princess would be alive today.” 

Sniffling for the benefit of the crowd, he continued, “Our innocent little Charlie… my sweet niece! She was so kind of heart, so willing to see the good in people - she accepted it when he spoke of the Fallen in good terms, believed that their dark souls could be saved. And in doing so, she was destroyed.” 

_ He was good, _ Castiel admitted - there was just a kernel of truth mixed in with the lies, enough to make the story believable. It was Charlie’s kind heart that had led them here; her kind heart had sent him to the Witherlands, where he’d met more people as open as she herself was. 

And the crowd believed him, Castiel could tell. Why wouldn't they? Of course the Regent’s duty was to protect the Crown - even if it meant arresting the Crown Princess. He’d been acting in the interests of Viridia. His haste could be forgiven because he was only doing his duty; now, he was bringing the princess’s killer to justice. 

“Your High Paladin,” he said smoothly, “stands before you, in chains. I have brought him here to stand trial for his crimes - he’s locked the Sanctum, most sacred of spaces with his own blood. I would have had him executed on the spot were it not for this. Now, he shall unlock it, turn over control of the Altar to the Crown as it always should have been and then bow before the Sword.”

He turned to Castiel. 

“Open it,” he commanded, every inch the despotic ruler. 

Gritting his teeth, Castiel held up his shackled hands. “Remove these first,” he hissed. Protests broke out amongst the crowds and he heard a number of people yell. 

_ Traitor! _

Marv stepped forward, raising a hand. The crowd fell silent, watching carefully, and he stepped forward, jamming a small, silver key into the shackles. They fell open and Castiel’s magic buzzed, springing to life beneath his fingertips instantly.

_ Murderer!  _

“Don't try anything,” Marv warned. “Or you will not survive.” 

He shot a dark look at the crowd behind them, and Castiel understood suddenly the dual purpose of their presence here - not only were they to watch him fall from grace, but their presence would prevent his rebellion. Even if he could take Metatron out, he wouldn't get past the throngs of people gathered in the Sanctuary. 

With their loyalty to Marv cemented, Castiel wouldn't get past the doors before he’d be shot down. Even his magic wasn’t enough to protect him from so many Viridians - as far as tactics went, it was brilliant. He cursed himself for not seeing it previously. 

“Open the Sanctum, Castiel,” Metatron ordered. 

“I don't have my caduceus,” he retorted. “I cannot perform magic without-” 

“Yes you can,” Marv interrupted. “You’re one of the few paladins powerful enough to do so. We’ve all seen it.” he waved to the crowd behind him, and shouts of approval resounded - Castiel was well-known for his ability to manipulate magic without caduceus, it was one of the reasons why he was High Paladin and well the people knew it. 

With a sigh, he turned to the doors he’d sealed with his own blood, feeling his magic snap into place as he clenched his fists, trying to get the blood circulation going again. Stepping forward, he reached out with his mind, searching for the seal, breathing in deeply -

_ In. _

One, two, three - 

He fell into the instinctive pattern of calm Joshua had taught him as a child, that he’d been practicing since the first time he’d seen these doors. 

_ Out.  _

One, two, three, four, five - 

His eyes snapped open and he held back a gasp, reaching with his mind -

This was wrong, it couldn't be, it  _ wasn’t - _

He pushed, gritting his teeth, and his magic jumped again, reaching out, buzzing, longing to connect - 

_ This felt familiar, _ and he realized with a start, he  _ knew  _ what it was. He knew it,  _ wanted  _ it, loved it - 

Tendrils of the cold, green-golden warmth curled around his own blue powers, and he welcomed it, throwing his hands up. 

“Open,” he whispered, and the doors swung open to reveal exactly what Castiel had expected to see. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean grinned from behind the Sword of Life, grinning widely, the Mark of Cain in full display for all to see. Beside him stood Charlie, a smile on her face, chin raised haughtily as she helped a tired Sam stand straight. 

And Castiel’s heart soared, even as his magic reached out to the Dorcha, seeking its other half.

*-*-*

Using Cas’s caduceus to open the Inner Sanctum before Marv could get to it was Sam’s idea. When he’d heard that the Regent had asked for all the immediate townspeople to gather at the Altar the next morning, he’d guessed at the Regent’s plan - somehow, he wanted to disgrace Cas in front of the people and legitimate himself as ruler within the Sanctum. The only solution, then, he’d reasoned, was to get there before him and expose him. That meant opening the Sanctum doors. 

Cas had sealed it with blood-magic. The only thing that would break the seal was his blood, which was why Marv still had him alive. But the High Paladin had thrown his caduceus into the well - they could open it as long as they used it. 

Both Dean and Charlie had been hesitant. The latter was worried that no one other than the High Paladin had stepped into the Inner Sanctum in centuries - it was one of the most sacred spaces in the country, meant to be protected and kept safe. 

Dean, on the other hand, was worried about something far more dangerous than an arbitrary sense of space - Cas had told him that every caduceus carried a paladin’s blood in it. Using it then, without Cas’s explicit permission, was as close to using dark magic as Dean would come. 

“But Cas threw his caduceus in after you, Dean,” Sam had argued. 

“To keep it safe from Marv, Sam!” he’d protested, “Not for  _ me  _ to use!” 

Sam had looked him square in the eye and asked, “And if Metatron gets the Sword? Defiles it with his dark magic? What do you think Cas would want - you to use his caduceus or for Marv to get the Sword?” 

Sometimes, Dean had to admit, he really hated his brother’s intellect. Sighing in defeat, he had agreed to breaking the seal that Cas had placed on the Sanctum. 

Charlie, however, wasn’t that easily convinced. Having been raised to keep the Sanctum the safest and most sacred place within Viridia, she had argued against it until her face was blue. Dean had finally snapped about an hour later, snarling at her for a better plan. 

“If you know,” he sneered, “Of a way that doesn’t bring Death to your precious Altar _ , Your Highness, _ I’d love to hear it.” 

She’d fallen silent then, looking away, an embarrassed flush on her cheeks. For a second, Dean felt a flash of regret - she was still a kid, already fighting against the social norms she had internalized since childhood. _ But there was no time to be nice, _ he thought sternly, they were all but in a state of war with Metatron’s spirit. 

Neither Charlie nor even Cas knew how to exorcise a spirit - this was his forte, and they were just gonna have to let him and Sam do what they did best. If that meant that Dean was going to hell because he was toeing a grey line, then so be it. This was a risk he was willing to take for Cas. 

H wouldn't admit how much his stomach was churning with anxiety, how much his dreams that night were filled that of Cas being tortured, of being killed. 

The  _ fuck  _ hadn’t he told him before? Why the hell had he tried to suppress his feelings? Why hadn’t he just shown Cas how much he meant to him? 

The thought returned, hours later, when they were waiting for Cas to show up, stuck inside the Sanctum. Dean had chanced a look at Charlie’s face when he broke the spell; she remained impassive, her expression neutral even as he reached out with his magic. 

The Mark pulsed happily at the feel of Cas’s navy self hiding within the depths of the caduceus. His magic itched to connect with the echo of Cas, pushing against his own skin, and for the first time since he’d met the paladin, he let himself go, let his magic direct him towards Cas the way it wanted to.

_ Woah.  _

He stumbled to his knees at the sheer warmth of it - the sense of Cas within the caduceus was fucking strong, even if it was only an echo of the man himself. His Mark was glowing a bright gold, and Dean gasped, feeling tears prick his eyes at the sensation.

If this was what connecting to an echo felt like, what would it be to actually have Cas’s magic touch his own? 

_ Cas - Cas!  _

So when Cas’s magic reached out from the other side of the door barely an hour later, Dean bit his lower lip and surrendered to its touch, opening himself up to it. 

Fuck, but it felt so  _ good  _ \- warm, and buzzing, and  _ so  _ alive. 

_ The skin around his Mark seemed to be stained a permanent gold now, _ he mused, refusing to think about what the could mean. 

The door swung open a second time, and he grinned widely, heart leaping at the utterly stunned look on Cas’s face. Their magics collided, and for a second, he was almost dizzy - Moon’s cycle, he couldn't wait to try this out in bed. 

“Hey Cas,” he winked. 

“Dean,” Cas’s whiskey-soaked voice was even more hoarse than usual and Charlie stepped up, saluting him quickly. 

“Who are you?” Marv thundered. 

Dean’s eyes moved from Cas to the Regent. The Mark went from pleasantly warm to burning hot against his skin -  _ fuck _ , but he could see the dark miasma, see the malevolence of the spirit that was controlling the Regent. 

Behind them, stood a bunch of the townspeople he had had carted in. Whispers broke out, uncertain and afraid at the sight of Dean’s Mark. He allowed a savage smile to curve his lips - let the damn fuckers see who he was and what he could do. 

“Don't you recognize me, Uncle?” Charlie said sweetly. “You just told them all how much you loved me, didn't you?” 

“Princess Charlie is dead!” he roared. “ _ He _ murdered her!” he pointed to Castiel, kicking him into Sanctum.

“Don't touch him,” Dean growled angrily. 

“See what your paladin has done,” he sneered in reply. “He’s let in a dark sorcerer into the Inner Sanctum - and not just any dark sorcerer. Look at his Mark!” 

He turned around, throwing his arms open, as though in resignation, “It’s the  _ Dorcha  _ of the Witherlands himself!” he turned back, “What’s to say that that is not an apparition created by the Fallen? How can we know that you’re the true princess?” 

“She’s not-” Cas hissed in retaliation, but another, soft voice rang clear, cutting him off. 

“It  _ is  _ her.” 

The crowd turned as one to see a tall, dark-haired woman standing behind them, a grim expression on her face, even as she held a caduceus in her hand. Dean’s heart leapt as he saw Balthazar and Missouri stood by her side, triumphant looks on their faces. 

“Hannah?” Cas looked taken aback. 

Dean shared a look with Sam - whoever she was, she was clearly one of the castle paladins. What if she was one of the dicks allied with Marv, someone Alfie had missed? 

The crowd parted to let her through as she marched up to the entrance of the Sanctum, walking in. An expression of reverence flashed through her face before she schooled it away; clearly, this Sanctum was a special place for these guys. 

“How can you be so certain?” Marv snapped. “I understand that your sense of loyalty to your former High Paladin is deep, Hannah, but I believed I could count on you to protect the Viridian people.” 

“Even as you say, Milord,” she inclined her head, “My duty is to protect the people of Viridia from harm. Last night,” she faced the confused throngs of people whispering and hissing amongst themselves. “Last night, I was told a very disturbing story by none other than the princess’s personal guard,” she gestured towards Balthazar, “I didn't believe him at first.”

She whirled around to face the Regent. “But,” she hissed, “Your own paladins gave you away, Marv. I interrogated those that Samandriel named - they revealed the whole truth. You killed Queen Gertrude, you ordered Princess Charlie killed too, but she escaped. And you had Castiel’s apprentice murdered when he found the truth.” 

Gasps echoed within the tiny space of the Sanctum as the crowd began to push each other around, protesting loudly and angrily. 

“He can't-” 

“The  _ Dorcha’s  _ here, maybe he killed-” 

“Why would he kill Her Majesty - Castiel brought dark magic to the Sanctum-” 

“I knew it- I  _ knew  _ he was after the throne-” 

“Princess Charlie isn't-” 

“Silence!” Marv thundered. He threw up his hand and twisted his clenched fist - the door slammed shut. Loud screams of fear and protest broke out as those stuck outside began to bang the great, wooden doors in an attempt to get to those trapped inside. 

Dean tensed, eyes scanning the crowd. About fifty of the townspeople were locked inside with them, pushing at one another and punching the doors behind them to try and get it open.

“What are you doing, Marv?” Cas barked. “You cannot-” 

“So you know everything,” the Regent shrugged. “Oh well.”

His tone was conversational, and he casually reached out to grab the nearest villager. It was a young woman, barely a few years older than Charlie herself, and he held her close, gently patting her cheek even as she trembled in fear. Behind them, a bunch of men and women reached forward to grab her back, but Marv simply waved his hands, trapping them within a circle. 

“Well, my dear,” he said, “You’re just like my niece over there, aren't you?” 

Charlie dropped Sam’s arm, pushing him towards Dean, who caught his brother just in time. Stepping forward, she glared at the Regent, who was smirking evilly. The girl in his arms whimpered, tears streaking down her face. 

“Let her go, Uncle,” she commanded. “I’ll give you whatever you want - don't hurt the innocent townspeople.” 

“But that’s just it!” Marv exclaimed, “I already have what I want. This,” he grinned, and then raised his hand up, quickly clenching his fist. 

“No!” Dean yelled, feet carrying him forward instinctively. But it was already too late - the girl’s neck twisted and she let out a gurgled, half-scream, going still as she soon as she crumpled to the floor. 

Screams broke out in the crowd behind her, and Marv turned to them, a bored expression on his face. 

“Oh shut up,” he rolled his eyes, “or you’ll be next.” 

“This,” he turned back to a shaking Charlie, repeating himself, “This was just to remind you that you can’t stop me, my dear.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Hannah asked. She had moved towards where Cas was standing, having been quiet throughout the whole exchange. 

“Because,” he finally spoke up, voice quiet and leaving no room for uncertainty. “He’s possessed - by the spirit of the man who originally caused Lucifer to fall. He’s Metatron,” he glared at the Regent, “aren’t you, Your Grace?” 

The ensuing silence was so loud, Dean thought he could count the breaths of each of the people that were trapped inside the Sanctum. His own heart thundered so loudly, he wondered if it was going to throw itself out of his chest. 

“Death magic,” one of the villagers rasped, “ _ They _ must’ve brought it with them!” he spat in Dean’s direction, and the Dorcha held back an eye-roll. 

“He’s the  _ Dorcha _ !” another cried. “Of course he did!”

“Why else would the Regent suddenly turn evil?” 

“Why would he harm us?” 

“It’s the Fallen - it’s _ them!”  _

Dean refused to admit how much his heart cracked at the accusations - he wasn’t giving these assholes the satisfaction of seeing them break. Next to him, Sam’s expression was resigned, familiar, and he ached more for his brother’s lost love than he did himself. 

Across him, Castiel growled. 

“He’s the only one who can stop the Regent,” he said tersely, “he’s-” 

“He’s the  _ Dorcha _ !” 

“He’s evil!” 

“See, Castiel?” the Regent laughed amongst the loud, angry yells, “You foolish humans… you always choose fear over understanding one another. Every single time.” 

Madness reflected off of his face as he sneered at the High Paladin. “Michael promised me,” he hissed, “he swore that I would get my own lands. And instead, he gave them to baby brother.” he made a face and growled in a low voice. “So… I did what I had to.” 

“You made them turn on one another,” Charlie said, her voice low and horrified. 

He nodded in a saintly manner. “Lucifer got the lands he wanted,” he said cheerfully, “Only instead of the glowing, grassy green fields, he got the Witherlands. As it should be for a dirty Necromancer. I was going to destroy them completely, you know.”  

“But,” his face turned furious then, “My sister found me out. She threatened to have me banished - I knew I had to do something. Lovely Naomi, so worried about doing right by her people… if only she’d known what she was doing when she cut me down.” 

“Your plans were incomplete,” Dean realized, “So your spirit lingered. All that anger, all that hate had to go somewhere, especially after such a violent death.”  

“She tried to get Michael and Lucifer back together again,” he sounded furious, “I couldn't let that happen, could I? So I waited… watched.” 

He turned to the crowd, many of whom were weeping quietly, others watching in terrified silence. He patted a young boy gently, ignoring his whimpers, but didn't hurt him, pushing him back to his mother, who held her to him tightly. 

“And everytime the Witherlands and Viridia tried to make peace,” he continued, “I intervened. Naomi went to a soothsayer, tried to find out - damned old woman drew her a prophecy, which she hid away.”

“But,” his expression turned gleeful, “It wasn’t until your uncle, Charlie, my dear, that I got to truly do something - he was so desperate, so worried about his sister-in-law’s naiveté regarding the Fallen.” 

“You bastard,” she growled in response. 

He shrugged. 

“He’s really quite ashamed, you know,” he said conversationally. “I can hear him, screaming away inside, begging you to kill this body. Oh well, not everyone understands the opportunities I give them - your ancestor certainly didn't.” 

“I’ll kill you,” she vowed. “You fucking-” 

“Tut, tut,” he cut her off, “language my dear.” 

“If you’re so strong,” she snarled, “Why don't you come forward and take me on directly, asshole? I’m right here,” she taunted. 

Marv’s eyes narrowed at her, and he strode forward, snarling. “You don't want to challenge me, princess,” he growled. 

She raised a challenging eyebrow at him. “Maybe I  _ do _ , Uncle,” she spat right back in his face. “You hired assassins to kill my mother. Why, Your Grace? Couldn't do it yourself? Couldn't look her in the eye as you stabbed her?” 

_ Bit more,  _ Dean thought desperately, his every instinct clamoring to pull Charlie to his side and keep her safe. 

“I’m no coward!” Marv roared, “you shut your mouth, you little-” 

“And then you had to plot against me,” she continued, “just a little girl, Uncle - couldn't even stop an eighteen year old kid, so you had to resort to arresting me. So pathetic.” 

Marv roared in fury and strode forward - 

_ Almost.  _

“It wasn’t just me, was it?” Charlie barked out an ugly laugh. “Samandriel was barely out of his teens and he found your prophecy - is your magic so weak, Uncle, that you couldn't even hide it from him?” 

Marv raised his hands, ready to snap her neck as easily as he’d snapped the girl’s - 

“Now, Sam!” Dean cried. 

His brother stumbled back, raising his hands to the skies and summoning all the magic he had. The five candles hanging from the ceiling lit up, the pentagram drawn from Sam’s blood coming to life, and Marv hissed in fury as he found himself stuck, unable to move. 

“What have you done?!” he yelled. “What is this?” 

“Dean!” Charlie looked wild, “Dean, exorcise him!”

The Dorcha didn’t need to be told twice - the circle wouldn't hold him for long. Quickly, he stepped forward, ignoring the whimpers of fear from the townspeople, and held the First Blade away from his body, pointing it towards the Regent. 

“It’s over, motherfucker,” he jeered. Closing his eyes, he felt the Mark pulse, and through the magical link he still had with Cas, he felt the paladin’s confusion and question. Ignoring both, he focused on the malevolent darkness in front of him, recalling the chant to exorcise the evil spirit. 

“ _ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas- _ ” Dean’s loud voice rang out through the halls of the Sanctum, echoing through the chambers. A part of him wondered if this would mean that the sacred space was defiled - surely the use of Death magic meant that he was ruining it?

Some of the townspeople seemed to share this opinion; he watched from the corner of his eyes as disgusted expressions appeared on many faces, some turning away from him entirely. It fucking hurt, but he focused on the way Marv was writhing within the circle, trapped and unable to move. 

He pulled the First Blade back towards himself and then lunged forward, thrusting it into the centre of Marv’s chest, feeling the skin squish as the Blade sunk into his heart. 

“ _ -audi nos! _ ” he finished triumphantly, waiting for the tell-tale spin of black smoke to escape and head back to hell where it belonged. 

A second passed, and then two. 

_ Nothing happened.  _

“Dean-” Charlie began uneasily. 

Loud, ringing laughter cut her off. Dean looked up to see the Regent grinning evilly, bringing his arms up to clap happily. 

“Wow, Dean!” he yelled, “what a performance! Too bad though,” he sighed, waving his hand. Dean’s back crunched as he flew out of his way, falling right near the Sword of Life, groaning loudly. The First Blade was still stuck to Marv’s chest, and he looked down at it, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“Did you really think you could exorcise me like you would a normal spirit?” he continued. “I am  _ Metatron _ . And this Blade?” 

He yanked it out of his chest like it was little more than a toothpick, thumbing down the side of it. The wound on his chest was bleeding, but he paid it no mind, holding up the Blade and staring at it fondly. 

“I taught Lucifer how to make a weapon out of bones, you know,” he said conversationally. “He became rather good at it, even if I say so myself! Made a bunch of these - one blade for every body he dropped.” 

“But that first blade…” he shivered excitedly, a manic grin on his lips. “That first blade… that was the one I convinced him to stab Michael with -  _ this  _ blade, Dean. This First Blade.” 

He turned to Charlie, who was holding up a trembling Sam now, weakened from the effort of keeping the circle closed. She glared at him, but Dean could see how terrified she was even from here. 

He was just as scared. 

“And you,” Marv chuckled, “You thought you could kill me with  _ this _ .” His expression turned ugly, “ _ I _ made this, Dean - me!” 

He stabbed the Blade into the ground before him, throwing his arms up and yelling to the skies. Sudden thunder rumbled across the skies and Dean’s eyes met Cas’s, sharing a horrified look at him the way the sun vanished behind the darkest clouds they’d ever seen. The paladin stumbled, feeling his powers weakened, and Dean’s heart raced at the way in which Marv growled. 

And then, of course, the ground exploded. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 16**

_ Golems. Of course it would be Golems, _ Castiel thought sourly as he ducked out of the way, throwing himself back towards where the townspeople were.

The entire thing seemed like a dream - because how could there be clay men inside his sacred Sanctum, growling and surrounding the Regent, awaiting his evil orders? 

How had his life turned into this? 

He was supposed to be the High Paladin. His duty was to protect the people and keep the Sanctum and the Sword safe. 

Now, the Sanctum was filled with more dark magic than Castiel had seen in his entire lifetime, Golems, like blood-magic, were grey area - they could only be made out of their creator’s blood. If used without consent, the golem so created was dark - and Marv clearly wasn't bothered about whether his soldiers had given permission or not. 

Across him, the Sword was pulsing angrily, and he winced. As High Paladin, he could sense its discomfort - it was never meant to be in the presence of such darkness. There was a reason only the High Paladin was allowed to enter this chamber; even his own imbalanced sense of self could cause harm. 

Swallowing the guilt that arose, he got to his feet in front of the whimpering and crying villagers, ignoring their hisses and angry yells. He threw his hands up, summoning his magic - distantly, he could feel Dean’s power echoing his own, and he blinked back tears.

_ Would he ever get to feel more than the single strand of it he was feeling right now?  _

Banishing the petty thought, he growled, quickly erecting a forcefield around the villagers. It was rough and haphazard, but it would do as long as they didn’t step out of the circle that carved itself out on the ground below them. 

“Nice touch,” Marv complimented him. “But how long will you protect them, Castiel?” he turned to the golems, “Go for it, my pretties.” 

Chaos broke out, people yelling and crying, even as the golems moved in to attack them. Castiel tensed, standing in front of them, hands outraised; his magic was still weak from the eclipse and the ensuing torture, and he didn’t have his caduceus -

_ My caduceus! _

“Dean!” he cried. “My caduceus!” 

The Dorcha blinked owlishly, and then grunted, yanking the caduceus that was hanging from his hip, throwing it towards the paladin. Castiel jumped over a golem stomping in his direction, somersaulting in the air to grab it, landing on his feet on the other side. Whirling around, he quickly traced the sigil for  _ dissolve  _ into the air and pointed his caduceus at the golem. It growled, changing directions, but it was already too late - Castiel’s spell took hold and sudden water bubbled across the creature, dissolving it into mud that splattered across the Sanctum floor. 

His lips twitched in a triumphant smirk. 

It lasted only for a moment - the mud began to gather together again, quickly coming together to form another clay man in the previous golem’s place. Before Castiel could blink, a second golem was growling at him, this time heading straight for the townspeople. 

“No!”

Castiel had barely a moment to process Hannah’s cry before she was standing between the golem and the villagers, holding her caduceus up. He could feel his own force-field falter, and he cast a look around him, watching the rest of the golems converge on the rest of them. A feeling of helpless rage bubbled within, and he let loose and angry yell, racing towards Hannah to help her. 

“Castiel!” she screamed, “Get the door open! I’ve got the rest of the paladins outside!” 

“We can't take that risk,” he growled back, “We don't know how many of them are working with the Regent - what if they rush to his aid?” 

Two more golems pounced on them from either side, blocking Castiel, Hannah and the villagers off from the rest of the Sanctum, trapped close to the door. They couldn't run, they couldn't kill the golems - by the Sun, he didn't what he could do. He jumped at one of them in desperation, trying a roundhouse kick that he’d learnt from Dean. The clayman stumbled back, but the two on his sides were still coming. 

“Do you see another way out?” she snapped. 

Castiel paused, swallowing hard - they were trapped, cut off from the rest of them as well. The villagers were behind the, cowering and crying, and he realized, there was no choice. Cursing under his breath, he whirled around, focusing on the magic holding the door closed. 

It was the same, angry, darkness he’d felt from the night of Alfie’s death. Tendrils of the black miasma twirled around the door; he could see it clearly behind his eyes, and his heart constricted at its presence in his sacred Sanctum. 

He hadn’t allowed it to defile the space then - no way in  _ hell  _ he was letting win now. 

Pushing with all the power he had, he traced the sigil for open into the air. He was peripherally aware of Hannah holding the golems back with her own power and he hissed, pointing his caduceus at the doors. 

“Open!” he thundered. 

His vision blacked for a moment, his powers draining out fast, and he stumbled, his caduceus nearly falling to the ground. A soft hand caught him just in time, and he blinked up at Hannah to see her frowning at him. 

“Steady, Your Grace,” she barked, but her grip was gentle as she helped him up. 

The villagers let out a yell of joy, running outside the door, scattering like a bunch of wild goats. 

“Cassie!” Balthazar’s voice echoed over the din, even as a bunch of soldiers marched in. For a moment, Castiel hoped they were on their, but the second they swiped their spears at him, that hope was dashed. He stumbled back, Hannah holding him up, even as she called for the paladins behind the soldiers to help. 

“Paladins!” she yelled, “To me!” 

“You handle the golems,” he told her, “I need to get to Charlie and Dean and get the Regent out.”

She shot him a hard, inscrutable look and for a second, he was worried she was going to protest. But she simply nodded and pushed him back. 

“Go,” she said harshly. 

A stream of fire shot between them and she jumped back instinctively, both of them turning to where the paladin who’d shot it stood. 

It was Hael - Hannah’s ex. 

She sucked in a sharp breath and Castiel’s heart ached for her. 

“Hannah,” he began, faltering. 

“Go,” she said coldly. “I’ll handle this.” 

Breathing in deeply himself, Castiel turned around, jumping over the golems that stood between him and the Regent, only to find himself in the middle of his worst nightmare. 

Because right there, in the middle of a broken pentagram, stood Charlie, pointing a blade at the Regent, who was smirking back at her. 

*-*-*

Battles, in Dean’s opinion, were always too fast for comprehension. He’d been only in a few in his life, despite being one of the most accomplished fighters in the Witherlands. They'd never had much opportunity to fight, more concerned with survival and food rationing than anything else. Still, he knew what he had to do - somehow keep Charlie and Sam safe, along with the villagers. 

Looking up, he saw that Cas had already taken on that final job; he was standing between the damn golems and the townspeople cowering close to the door.

He drew his the second sword he carried with him and let loose a loud cry, charging into the battle, cutting down two of the golems at one go. He was fending off a third one, when he heard Sam yelp behind him. 

"Sam!" 

"I can't, Dean, I'm sorry, I can't-" he babbled. 

Dread filled the Dorcha and he whirled around to see Marv step out of the pentagram easily. He looked up - the candles were whiffed out, the magic lost. Sam was wobbling dangerously, and he bit back a curse, kicking the golem in front of him to swerve forward towards the Regent. 

"Come at me, you bastard," he growled. He had no idea how to defeat him - the exorcism hadn't worked. 

But if he could keep the man occupied, maybe he could give Cas and his paladins time enough to get the villagers to safety. 

"Sam!" he yelled, "Protect Charlie!" 

Marv's eyebrows rose to his forehead and he smirked. "A noble sentiment," he clapped. "But for how long?" 

"We'll see, you asshole," Dean retorted with a snarl. "I'll kill you before I let you touch my brother." 

"Michael was so like you, you know," Marv said almost absently. He raised his hand, a sword materializing in his grip, and Dean was horrified to realize that it was also made of bone, like his own First Blade. But the malevolence surrounding this blade was far darker than any miasma that covered his own - that was one scary motherfucker. 

"Always worrying for Lucifer, always trying to keep his brother safe," he continued, "But you can't deny the truth, Dean - your brother will always choose someone else over you. Lucifer chose his magic; what will Sammy choose?" 

"Shut up!" Dean screamed furiously. "Shut the fuck up and hit me, you son of a bitch!" 

He'd never admit it, but that struck a nerve - Dean had taken the Mark on happily for Sam, and he'd do a hundred times over happily. The hurt of being abandoned, however, of being left behind while Sam went to Viridia with Jess... that was a wound that was just beginning to scab over. 

Fucking malevolent spirits and their abilities to hit where it hurt the most. 

"No," Charlie's voice was small but firm. 

Dean ducked as a golem threw a punch, swiping his foot in a round kick that dropped the damn thing. It fell to the floor with a loud thud, mud spraying in every direction, and he looked up in confusion, glaring at her. 

"Stay back, Charlie," he barked. She ignored him, and gently pushed away Sam who was reaching for her weakly. 

"No, Uncle," she said. "You're not going to harm anyone else." 

"And how will you stop me, girl?" the Regent snickered. 

"You want the throne," she reminded him. "I'm heir by law - kill me and you will take it. But the people will never accept your rule as legitimate..." she paused, eyeing him, "unless you defeat me," she finished. 

It took Dean a moment to process what he was seeing - Charlie, holding her sword out at Marv, adopting a challenging stance. 

And then it sunk in. 

_ Charlie was challenging him to a one-on-one duel.  _

"Charlie!" he snapped, "Have you lost it- he's fucking possessed-"

"This is  _ my  _ throne, Dean," her voice left no room for argument. "My people, my duty. Stay the hell out of it." 

"You truly believe you can defeat me?" the Regent laughed. "Me?" 

She raised a thin, crimson eyebrow at him. "You want Viridia?" she challenged, "Fight me. Take it legitimately - no dark magic, no one to interfere. Just you and me, the old-fashioned way." 

"Defeat me," she shrugged, "And I will surrender my claim to the throne completely. If I win," her expression hardened, and right there, Dean saw why she was the future queen, "I will have you executed publicly." 

Marv considered her for a long moment, his eyes going dark. Dean could feel the spirit, feel its amused power, and he swallowed the rising nausea down. 

"Okay!" the Regent clapped his hands. "You've got spirit, my girl... I shall be sorry to have to kill you." 

He leveled his blade at her and Charlie stepped forward bravely, holding her own sword up. 

"Charlie, the _ fuck-" _

"Stay out of it," she said quietly. "This is between me and my Uncle, Dorcha." 

Without waiting for a response, she charged, and Dean's heart skipped a beat as a clang of swords rung out through the entire Sanctum, her blade clashing with the Regent's who blocked her easily. 

"Moon's tits," Dean swore. Cutting his way through three golems, he moved to Sam, who was breathing heavily even as he poked his blade at the golem in front of him. Dean grabbed the clay man by its neck and snapped it in half, throwing the mud head somewhere behind him. It dropped to the ground easily, the mud gathering together to reform, and Dean grabbed his brother, pulling him to a corner. 

"You alright, Sam?" he asked gruffly.

"Go," his brother replied, sweat beading his brow. "You need to help Cas and Charlie, I'll be fine." 

He shot him a hard look, but Sam pushed him back and he went, clutching his blade tightly and refusing to admit to the fear simmering in his belly. 

Racing forward, he ducked a golem and then slashed a second one, trying to get to Charlie. A moment later, he jumped forward, trying to avoid another clayman, just as a human hand stabbed at him. He barely dodged it in time, grunting as he whirled around to face one of the castle guards, scowling at him angrily. 

"I'm gonna kill you," the guard hissed, "You dark fucker. How dare you defile my-" 

"Yeah, yeah," Dean rolled his eyes, quickly thrusting his blade forward. The guard parried it easily, sidestepping the Dorcha to attack him from behind. Dean ducked, rolling on the floor to try and trip him, but the man jumped, raising an eyebrow at him. 

"You're good," he complimented. "But I'm better," he parried another of Dean's thrusts, "And I'm not alone." 

Before he knew, the Dorcha found himself surrounded by a bunch of soldiers, all of them carrying Viridia's insignia.  _ The problem,  _ Dean mused as he ducked another blade,  _ was that they didn't know what they were fighting for. _ These idiots were innocent - they only fought for Marv because he was their Regent and had fed them all bullshit. 

Killing them wouldn't be right; but they were taking up precious time.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Charlie charging Metatron, her sword calm and steady. The Regent, however, simply yawned, sidestepping her easily. 

_ He's toying with her,  _ he realized, a growing sense of horror sickening him. She was no match for him - he was playing with her like a kitten playing with a ball of string. 

Growling under his breath, he fought his way through the soldiers surrounding him. Distantly, he heard the clang of sword against sword, and knew that the battle around them was raging fiercely - paladin fought paladin, soldier against soldier, even as they looked about in confusion. 

Who was right? Castiel? The Regent? Charlie? 

Each guard Dean slashed down, he saw an equal mix of hatred, confusion and anger reflected from their expressions - he was careful to keep their wounds non-lethal, slashing at thighs and legs and arms so that they wouldn't be able to fight back, but not get permanently. 

Barely a few feet away from where Charlie was fighting Metatron, the Prime Minister stopped him, an evil grin on his lips. Dean was really beginning to hate his balding, wrinkly face. 

"Going somewhere, Dorcha?" he spat. 

This, at least, was one of the assholes whom he could kill - Zachariah was allied with Marv completely, and he'd led to Samandriel's death, Dean remembered from the spirit's memories. 

"Get out of my way," he growled back, "Or I'mma hack you to bits." 

"Try me, Dean," he hissed back. 

Desperation coloring his every move, Dean thrust forward, their blades clanging as they met in the middle.  _ Zachariah was good,  _ Dean admitted grudgingly, in spite of his stout, short form,   but he had no time for this - he rolled his sword in his hand and struck hard and fast, only to be stopped by Zachariah pulling a golem in between them. 

Dean's blade struck the creature in the belly and it roared, swatting him away easily. The Dorcha's grip around his sword loosened and he let it fly, the golem stumbling back and quickly falling apart. The sword fell to the ground with a clang, and he dove forward to get it, only to be stopped by Zachariah’s hand stomping down on his foot. 

"Not so fast," he smirked. 

Dean's eyes narrowed at the guard, and he kicked his legs up, startling Zachariah, who stumbled forward at the unexpected move. 

"Good night, motherfucker," he snapped, and punched the dick in the face, watching in satisfaction as his eyes rolled into his head and he fell to the ground in a useless heap. 

The sound of soft whimpers and coughs drew his attention and Dean whirled around to see Marv holding his hand out, fists clenched as he held Charlie afloat with his magic.  _ She was choking,  _ he realized with horror, and eyes darting around for his sword. 

It lay on the other side - he’d never be able to get to it in time. Blood pounding with an urgency he’d never felt, his eyes darted around for something - anything - else he could use. 

He sucked in a sharp breath as his gaze landed on the Sword, right behind him, stuck into the stone with the force of his ancestor’s anger. If the legend was right, then Michael had never been able to draw the Sword out again because he was too filled with rage - the Sword could be held someone who was absolutely calm, who wielded it for the sake of others. 

Well, he wasn’t calm, but he  _ was  _ going to use it for someone else’s sake. For a second, he hesitated, knowing his magic - the magic of a Necromancer, of Death - could defile the Sword of Life. 

“No!” came the sound of Castiel’s yell, anguished and raw. “NO!” 

And Dean’s hesitance vanished. 

He lunged forward, sending out a quick prayer -  _ please  _ \- and the Mark pulsed in response, even as his fingers closed around the Sword, pulling at it with all the strength he had left. The Sword gave easily, coming away as though he yanking it from its sheath instead of the stone it’d been stuck in for centuries and he stumbled forward, holding it close. 

Without a thought, he whirled back around and raced towards Metatron, ignoring the way the Mark was glowing, ignoring the way the Sword felt like a natural extension of his arm even if it was new - what did it mean that  _ he  _ was wielding the Sword of Life? 

A golem marched into his way, and he ducked, sliding between its huge legs, leaving it for Sam to handle, rolling to a stop right behind Marv. He heard more than saw Cas and lunged - 

\- plunging the blade right into Marv’s heart, even as the edge of a familiar Blade protruded out next to him, narrowly missing his face. 

_ Life and Death,  _ he mused,  _ the Sword and the Blade.  _

The thought vanished as Marv raised his hand and threw Cas to the side. Dean growled, stepping back as the Regent turned around, a terrifying, furious look on his face. He raised his sword and the Dorcha knew what was coming even before it did - it didn't fucking matter, though, did it? 

“I got you, motherfucker,” he muttered, twisting the Sword of Life where it was still stuck in his chest. He let out a tiny sound that could be a whimper or a gasp, but Dean knew that no one else except him could hear, even as the Regent’s hand moved lightning fast, the sword plunging into Dean’s belly. 

"You-you didn't - I was going to-" Marv mumbled and Dean’s expression turned triumphant, even as his grip on the Sword slackened. 

_ “NO!”  _

The last thing he saw were a pair of burning, blazing blue eyes. 

*-*-*

"No!" Castiel yelled loudly and raced forward. 

What the hell was Charlie  _ doing _ ? She was good with a blade - they'd both training together since childhood and he'd taught her a number of tricks himself - but this was a  _ dark spirit  _ she was challenging. And even without the possession, the Regent was an accomplished fighter. 

She didn't stand a chance. 

"Charlie!" he called. She paid him no mind and he cursed inwardly, kicking his way through a line of golems who charged him. Impatiently, he hacked away at their big arms and legs, throwing the pieces in different places to prevent them reforming, or at least delay it, but it seemed like for every golem he slew, two more took its place. 

Metatron's magic was too strong - it kept him from reaching Charlie, kept him occupied with the angry clay men who kept charging him, as was no doubt the Regent's intention. 

"Move out of my way," Castiel hissed through gritted teeth into the brown, muddy mockery of a face in front of him. The golem grunted, and then raised huge arms to punch him. He rolled out of the way, ducking the punch, but before he could get to his feet, a second golem pounced, holding his arm down. His grip on his sword loosened, and he yelped in pain, trying to pull his arm free. 

The first golem bore down on him, straddling his hip, and Castiel cried, dropping his caduceus to clench his fist and punch the creature's chin. It worked - the golem's head went lolling into the sky, the weight on his body slackening. The second one, however, was still holding his arm down, and Castiel reached forward to punch it as well. This one seemed smarter - it ducked, rolling forward with the paladin's sword still in its grip. 

He let his sword go, pulling his hand back. The creature lost its balance and stumbled forward, and Castiel hissed triumphantly. 

Whirling back, he sidestepped a third golem to grab at his caduceus, but the clay man grabbed him by the neck, holding him up as it strangled him from the back. Choking, Castiel clawed at the muddy hand cutting off his breathing, but it was too strong - his vision was darkening and his head was spinning. The smell of wet mud clogged his nostrils and he lashed out blindly, trying to find something, anything to help.

His fingers closed around the thick hilt of a blade, but it was stuck. Castiel yanked at it, grunting, even as his hand trembled - he was getting dizzy, unable to breathe, unable to see, he was going to die like this - 

_ No! I will not die like this.  _

Gritting his teeth, he pulled hard. 

The blade came loose suddenly and Castiel stumbled; he would've fallen if not for the clay man holding and choking him. Acting on pure instinct, he raised his arm and stuck the blade into the golem's eye. 

It roared, dropping Castiel, and he fell to the ground, hands flying to his neck to pat it gently even as he panted, the blade cluttering to the floor next to him, forcing sweet air into his lungs. Coughing, he stared up at the golem, his eyes widening in surprise as it did more than just fall apart like before - it disintegrated in front of him, the mud turning into the smallest fine dust that didn't reform. 

His head whirled back to the blade he'd dropped and he stopped short. 

It was the First Blade. 

_ He _ , the High Paladin, had wielded the First Blade and it had let him. What the hell did that mean? 

Troubled, he reached forward cautiously to pick it up - it didn't respond in any visible way, but the moment his fingers closed around the hilt, he felt a tingle run up his arm, as though the Blade was approving his touch. 

Swallowing hard, he refused to think about the possible implications, instead focusing on the golem that loomed in place of the one he'd just destroyed. With a raw-throated, angry yell, he stuck the Blade into the middle of its chest - it disintegrated just like the previous one, destroyed completely. 

_ The First Blade could kill them, _ he realized. Understanding flashed in an instant - the golems were brought to life with blood and Life magic. The First Blade deployed the magic of Death; it was the only thing with enough power to kill these creatures. 

Armed with that thought, he rolled over and began to hack his way through to Charlie. The golems fell easily in the face of his ire; it wasn't long before he was just a few feet from her.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the Regent circling her, thrusting forward and ducking back to avoid her blade. Charlie's face was an expression of familiar concentration - he'd seen it more times than he could count. But Marv looked almost bored. 

She brought her sword down in a round swipe and the Regent dodged it easily, bringing up his own bone-made blade to block her. He grabbed her arm and rolled her around, choking her from behind, and Castiel's heart skipped a beat as he plunged the First Blade into yet another golem to get to her. 

_ Come on, Charlie! _ he thought desperately - he'd taught her how to get out of a chokehold like this, taught her self-defense -

And she remembered her lessons. A moment later, she was stomping on his foot, clawing at his face with her long fingernails. The move wouldn't have worked for Castiel - claymen were immune to pain - but Metatron was still possessing a human body with humane sensations. He yelped in pain, loosening his grip around her instinctively and she nearly slipped out, kneeing him in the nuts and jumping back as he swiped his blade at her. 

"You little bitch," he growled. 

"Come at me, Uncle," she taunted. "Get your ass kicked by a little girl." 

Castiel's insides churned with a mix of pride and fear.  _ Don't taunt him, _ he thought, knowing even then that insults would wind him up, which meant that he would make a mistake and slip up easily. It was a costly tactic, and one of the oldest in the book - but it worked. 

There was only one problem; this tactic worked on a  _ normal human.  _

Marv -  _ Metatron  _ \- wasn't a normal human. 

"I've had it with you, girl," he growled, expression hard and biting. His eyes flashed dark, and Castiel shivered from the evil miasma that was seeping through the entire Sanctum. 

"We've played long enough," he finished, throwing his hand out and clenching his fist. He rolled around - Charlie coughed, choking, and her sword cluttered to the floor with a loud  _ clang _ , even as she rose off the ground, floating in the air, her hands clawing at the invisible grip around her pale neck. 

"No!" Castiel growled. "NO!" 

Cutting his way through a few more golems, he jumped forward, urgency beating through his veins. Spinning the First Blade around, he tossed it from one hand to the other, rolling under her, and then lunged forward -

\- plunging the First Blade into the Regent's heart, just as the Sword of Life pierced him from the back, coming close to Castiel's face. 

He looked up, hardly daring to breathe, even as he recognized the Dorcha's loud yell, echoing from behind the Regent, who looked startled. 

"Yo-you-" he stammered. He dropped his hand and Charlie fell to the floor, groaning and coughing. Ignoring her, the Regent grabbed Castiel by the neck, picking him up like he was nothing and threw him back. 

The paladin rolled in the air, curling into himself, and landed on his knees right next to Charlie. Quickly reaching out for her, he pulled her close, and she buried her face in his shoulder, shaking even as tears rolled down her face. 

Marv growled, whirling around, and Castiel had barely a second to catch sight of Dean's startled expression before the Regent raised his sword- 

_ "NO!" _ Castiel yelled as realization struck hard and fast - 

\- Marv plunged his sword into Dean's belly, even as the Dorcha turned the Sword of Life that he was holding into the possessed Regent's chest. 

"I got you, motherfucker," Dean's tired whisper broke through the haze of blood pounding through Castiel's head. 

"You-you didn't - I was going to-" Marv tripped, shocked. 

And two bodies collapsed on to the floor of the Inner Sanctum at the same time.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 17**

"No!"

Castiel dropped Charlie, ignoring her slight yelp of protest, and ran to Dean's prone form, side-stepping a still gasping Marv, who was lying a few feet from the Dorcha. 

"Dean!" he cried. On the far end of the room, he saw Sam struggle to his feet from where he'd been battling a golem - the younger Winchester's face was ashen, his lips set in a grim line as he stumbled forward towards his brother. 

"Dean," Castiel's voice broke. He fell to his knees next to the Dorcha, grabbing his face with both hands, heart hammering in his chest. 

"Dean, please," he whispered, feeling the hot wetness prick his eyes. 

Hazy, green eyes fluttered shut, and Castiel's stomach dropped in terror. He let go of Dean's face, moving to the wound - Marv had yanked the sword out before he fell, and the stab was big, blood flowing out of it like his body was weeping crimson tears. 

"No," he murmured.  _ "No!"  _

Closing his eyes, he called for his magic. He could feel Dean's powers - the thin line he'd been holding at bay for a later that may never come now - fading, the green-golden pulse becoming fainter and fainter as each second passed by. 

_ No,  _ he growled, he wasn't going to let that green fade. He _ wasn't.  _

Gritting his teeth, he pushed past his own exhaustion and summoned every drop of magic he had. Pressing his hand down on the wound - both to stem the flow and to channel his magic - he let it flow through his fingers, feeling them squelch with the thick wetness of Dean's blood. 

"Heal!" he thundered. The wound quickly sapped him of energy, the skin knitting itself together. 

Behind him, he could hear Sam's soft intake of breath, and hope buoyed his chest, even as he pushed his magic down further on Dean, the skin regrafting over itself - 

\- and stopping midway. 

"No!" Castiel yelled.  _ "No, damn it!"  _

"What's happening?" Sam snapped, dropping next to Castiel. The paladin ignored him, pushing down his magic and sending it to Dean again - 

_ \- nothing.  _

"No, no, no," he muttered. 

"Cas  _ what _ ?!"

"My magic isn't enough," Castiel shouted. "It isn't..." his voice broke as he stared down at Dean, who was dying right now.  "It isn't strong enough to stop the miasma of Metatron's dark blade." 

What good was being the High Paladin, of wielding the magic of Life if he couldn't even save the man he was in love with? 

What good was  _ any  _ of it? 

"No," Sam grabbed his brother's face, tears flowing freely down his face, "Dean, wake  _ up _ , Dean? Dean,  _ dammit _ , Dean!" 

A rasping laugh drew Castiel's attention and he turned his head towards where Marv was coughing weakly, still alive, despite both the Sword of Life and the First Blade sticking out of him like he was little more than pincushion. 

Castiel's brows drew together, an idea forming at the back of his head. 

Marv was still alive. 

Dean was dying, but not dead yet. 

"Dean," Sam sobbed, "Dean, please, Dean-"

Conviction warring with common sense, Castiel pushed back, getting to his feet. Ignoring Charlie's soft call, he walked over to Marv, entire body stiff with rage and grief. 

"You," he growled. "You." 

"He's dead?" Marv's voice sounded strangely small and if he didn't know any better, Castiel would say he detected a hint of remorse in it. 

"Not yet," he snarled back, "But he is dying."

Marv whimpered - Castiel blinked at the uncharacteristic display of weakness as the Regent reached out, trying to grab at the paladin's hand. He dodged him, growling. 

"He's dying," he repeated, "But I won't let him." 

_ I won't let him - no matter what the cost is. _

Ignoring the loud, pained cries, he dragged the Regent's prone form to where Dean lay. Charlie reached forward, her cheeks tear-stained as she hugged Sam's shoulder, but Castiel slapped her hand away. 

"Dean," he murmured. Bending down, he gently took the Dorcha's face from Sam's lap - the younger Winchester didn't protest, hiccuping softly before burying his face in Charlie's red hair. 

Around them, the battle still raged, Castiel saw - he could hear Hannah's voice, calling out spells, even as Balthazar's throaty yell filled his ears. But the battle had broken with Marv's fall; the few soldiers still fighting were staring at one another in confusion, fear written clearly on their faces. 

But Castiel didn't care. 

Dean's face was pale, so utterly pale - his lips were turning blue, those beautiful green eyes closed as he breathed shallowly. 

"I love you," he whispered, brushing his lips against cold, unresponsive ones. 

Why had he waited so long to say it?  _ Why  _ had he obsessed so over his duty? 

It had all been for nothing, in the end. 

"Ca-Castiel," Marv muttered weakly, "Cas- Char-Charlie, please-" 

"Shut up," Castiel interrupted coldly. "You took his life. And now you will give it back." 

_ He'd already lost Samandriel in this Sanctum,  _ he thought dully, eyes taking in the shape of the Sword of Life sticking out of the Regent's chest. A sacred space was defiled, the High Paladin having failed his duty, but right now, Castiel didn't care. 

Dean was dying. 

And there was only one thing he could do now - Eileen's Life transfer spell. 

This would turn his magic dark, he knew. He was going to take Marv's blood without his consent, transfer his life-force into Dean's. 

It meant that the High Paladin of Viridia would now be a dark sorcerer. And much as Castiel didn't give a shit about his station any longer, he couldn't allow that to happen - his eyes fell on the hilt of the First Blade right next to the tip of the Sword of Life. 

_ This was why,  _ he realized,  _ the First Blade hadn't rejected him _ \- he was as capable of dark magic as he was light. 

He'd have to turn the Blade on himself, he knew. He'd transfer the dying Regent's life into Dean, and then stab himself with the Blade to prevent what happened to Lucifer from happening to him. 

Leaning forward, he kissed Dean one last time, feeling the Dorcha's soft breath hot against his face. 

"I love you," he whispered again. 

Then, without a second glance at Charlie or Sam, he grabbed Dean's left arm, holding it tightly with one hand as he reached for Marv's with the second, forming a live chain. 

Sam jumped back, quickly recognizing what was happening. 

"Cas, no!" he shouted. "Cas, you're gonna turn dark, you can't-"

"I don't have a choice, Sam," he yelled back, closing his eyes. Marv gasped, coughing loudly, and the sound grew within Castiel's mind until all he could hear was that rough rasp. 

"What?" Charlie cried, "What is he doing?" 

"He's transferring Marv's Life into Dean," Sam whispered, "With the life-force from Marv's form and Cas's own magic, he'll be able to heal the wound - but Cas is doing it without Marv's consent, he's using his blood without explicit permission, Charlie!" 

"He's going to turn his light magic dark," Charlie finished. "Cas, are you mad? You can't-"

"Stay back," the paladin growled. 

"Cas, that's an order!" Charlie screamed, "Stop it! I've lost my cousin already, I can't lose-"

Blue eyes sought hers own, ancient and wise and so sad, it made her want to weep. 

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Castiel whispered, "This is one order I must refuse." 

He smiled painfully, inclining his head in that familiar fucking head-tilt. 

"Love you, kiddo," he murmured, and then closed his eyes, giving himself to the magic once and for all. 

And then he knew no more. 

*-*-*

Dean's eyes snapped open and he grabbed at his stomach instinctively, feeling for the stab wound. He felt nothing there, however, and looked down in a confused manner, frowning when he saw that the skin was pure and unblemished. 

"The fuck?" he muttered, slowly getting to his feet. The sound of water bubbling somewhere nearby drew his attention and his eyes snapped up, widening in surprise as they took in his surroundings. 

He was lying in a garden. 

It was unlike any garden he'd ever seen though - huge, green shrubs and trees grew tall and wide, but they were covered from four sides with glass. The sound of the bubbling water came from the fountain sitting right in the middle of all the greenery, topped by the statue of an angel. 

_ The wings looked familiar, _ he realized - they were the exact shape as Cas's tattoos. 

Where the fuck  _ was  _ he? 

"Dean." 

The voice was husky and feminine and Dean whirled around, hands automatically flying to his hips for his Blade - only to find nothing there. 

"Relax. You're in no danger here." 

_ She was beautiful, _ he noted, heart skipping a beat. Long, dark hair fell in small curls over tanned shoulders. Wide, dark eyes peered out from a beautiful face that sat atop a voluptuous figure. 

But it was the Mark on her bare shoulder that drew his attention - it was an exact replica of the Mark he carried, her flawless skin broken only in that one spot, where the scar had ridged up. 

_ Or rather, _ he realized,  _ his Mark was a copy of hers.  _

He knew who she was. 

"You," he breathed. "Goddess." 

Dropping to one knee, he bowed his head, shaking quietly. 

She stepped forward, gently patting his cheek as she pulled him up. Her grip was cold, he noted, and strong - she handled him like he weighed nothing. 

"Dean," she smiled, raising his chin. He felt dizzy looking at her. "So strong, my hero. So brave, so selfless." 

"I did what I had to do, Milady," he said quietly, turning away. 

Because if he was here, with the Goddess... he'd been stabbed, hadn't he? 

He was _ dead.  _

Gulping the sobs that rose in his throat, he simply bowed his head. A pair of delicate, cold hands forced him to raise his eyes again and chilled, feminine lips pressed themselves against his own in a cajoling kiss. 

Dean kissed her back instinctively, feeling a tongue probe against his mouth - it was just as cool as her touch, none of the wet warmth he was used to. 

Blazing, blue eyes flashed in his mind.

With a loud yelp, he pushed back, dragging himself away from her instantly. He maybe dead, but he wasn't whoring himself out to some goddess - there was only one person he ever wanted to kiss again and she wasn't it. 

"My, my," she drawled, "No one's ever refused me before." 

"I apologize, Milady," he answered stiffly. "But my heart is spoken for." 

"Call me Amara," she told him. 

Dean blinked. "The Goddess of Death has a name?" he asked. 

She trilled out a soft laugh, stepping away from him and moving to a huge shrub caressing the long leaves gently. 

"I'm more than just the bringer of Death, Dean," she chided.

"Uh, yeah," he said uncertainly. "Sure." 

"And are you certain," her fingers trailed down her own neck, pausing to rest at the mound of a plump breast, "you don't wish to partake?" 

He averted his eyes, looking away quickly. "I told you," he insisted, "I want nothing with you." 

"So smart," she mused, "And yet, so stupid." 

Dean frowned. "What-" he began. 

"You and I, Dean," she interrupted, "Are already bound." Her fingers traced down her arm. "And it is a bond that will last forever - you are sworn to me." 

Dean's Mark jumped as she pressed down on the middle of her own Mark and he gritted his teeth, annoyed. 

"What do you want?" he hissed. 

She chuckled. "You always have been a hothead, haven't you?" her voice was fond. He didn't answer, simply glaring back at her, and she sighed, waving her hand over the water impatiently. 

"I want you to watch," she said. "And make a decision." 

"What?" he asked in confusion. She pointed to the water and he peeked over the fountain, eyes widening when he caught sight of the image that suddenly appeared in it, broken by the slight ripples of the water. 

"Watch," she repeated. 

It was himself - he was lying prone, barely breathing. But that wasn't attracted his attention. 

_ Cas! _

His heart leapt as he watched the High Paladin link grab his arm and then the fucking Regent's, glowing softly. 

"This is an order!" Charlie's voice screamed from behind. 

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Cas sounded so fucking broken when he said it, Dean felt his own heart shatter. "This is one order I must refuse." 

"Cas, what the fuck are you doing?" the Dorcha yelled. He whirled around on one foot to glare at the deity observing him almost absently. "The  _ fuck  _ is he doing?" 

Because if it was what he suspected... if it was what he was thinking...

_ No. _ Cas wouldn't be that stupid - he  _ couldn't  _ be.

"You already know," she said, a faded smile on her face. "He's attempting to transfer the Regent's remaining life-force into you because his magic wasn't enough to heal you fully." 

"He's gonna turn dark!" Dean snapped. "He's not doing it with Marv's consent - using the asshole's blood that way will make him go evil like Lucifer did!" 

Amara shrugged. "Maybe," she said. 

"Stop it!" he yelled. He threw himself to the edge of the fountain, reaching in to grab at Cas, to shake him - he was the High Paladin of fucking Viridia, he  _ couldn't  _ -

His hand passed through the image harmlessly, breaking it completely, fingers sifting through water. 

"It's just an image, Dean," Amara smirked. "Not a window into your world. You can only observe." 

"There has to be something I can do," Dean said desperately. "Some way to stop him." 

She paused, considering him for a long moment. 

"There is," she shrugged. "I could not return you to the world of the living - that way your Regent doesn't die for you and Castiel's magic remains pure." 

"But," she glided over to him, drawing him close and breathing cold against his mouth, "That would mean you stay here. With me." Rubbing herself against his crotch, she murmured, "And I'm a woman with needs, my hero." 

"Done," he said instantly. "I'll stay." 

His heart pounded with the reality of what he was saying - he'd never again see Cas, see Sam or Charlie. He'd never get to see the redhead become the queen she so obviously was meant to be, never call his brother  _ bitch  _ and hear his  _ jerk  _ again. He wouldn't get to see Sammy marry Eileen, get to play with their kids or watch Jo fall in love, eat Ellen's food or hear Bobby's muttered  _ idjit  _ ever again. 

He wouldn't ever make love to Cas, ever kiss the paladin or feel the warm brush of his magic. 

But Cas wouldn't turn dark. 

It was an even trade. 

Amara looked quizzically at him, pulling away in a puzzled manner. 

"Huh," she muttered. "Aren't you being the selfish one?" she shrugged. "Humans." 

Heart heavy, Dean glared at her. "Selfish?" he snapped, "I'm selfish?" 

"You can lie to yourself, Dean," she rolled her eyes, "But not to me." 

"I just left everyone behind to save the man I love," he hissed, "How am I selfish?" 

Her face turned impassive and mysterious. "Because," she said shortly, "You're running from your fears." 

"I'm not afraid for me," he snarled back. "I'm afraid for Cas-" 

"Yes," she interrupted, "But that's not why you wish to stay." 

"Well, then, Lady Amara," he retorted, " _ You _ tell me why." 

She drew close again, peering at him through narrow, black eyes - Dean swallowed, because in this moment, they looked like the eyes of every spirit he'd ever exorcised, possessing some poor bastard. 

"Because," a long, glittering fingernail trailed down his neck and in any other instance, he'd be getting excited right about now. "You're afraid of what you might find when you return. You're afraid of getting your heart broken - if you stay here, then you don't have to face the reality that despite the love you and Castiel share, you may not work out in the long run after all." 

Dean winced, looking away as his eyes burned from the admission. 

_ Fuck.  _

She was right. 

By the Moon's light, she was right - and she  _ was  _ the Moon. The absurdity of the situation brought acrid laughter bubbling in his throat, and Dean swallowed hard, closing his eyes. 

"You're right," he admitted quietly, tongue burning with each word. "I'm terrified - what if I go back and I find out Cas and I can't work? What if we can't make it last when we're not being chased?" 

His heart breaking, he whispered the last, greatest fear he'd been nursing since the second he'd stepped into Viridia and realized the vast difference that separated him from Cas. 

"What if he decides to leave me because no one would accept the High Paladin shacking up with the Dorcha of the Witherlands?" 

"Given that the Dorcha just slayed the evil Regent and pulled the Sword of Life out of the stone, I doubt that Viridians will hate him, but even if that happens, it will not change my love for you, Dean."

Dean's eyes flew open at the rough, whiskey-soaked voice and he whirled around, stepping out of Amara's grasp. 

"Cas," he breathed. 

Those blue eyes were just as wide, just as intense as he remembered them. 

"Hello, Dean." 

*-*-*

Castiel winced, both hands dropping to his sides, as he opened his eyes, looking around him. He was still in the Sanctum, but neither Marv nor Dean were anywhere to be seen. It was utterly empty and desolate like it had been before the Regent had defiled it - even the stone was in its place, though the Sword was noticeably missing. His magic pulsed and he paused, wondering what was happening. 

_ Dean.  _

Panic rose up in his throat, making it hard to breathe, and he forced air into his lungs, blinking hard to clear away the tears. 

_ Dean! _

"Dean?" he called. "Dean!" 

"Hi, Cas." 

He whirled around to see a small, bearded man watching him with a small smile. Castiel blinked - was that a bathrobe he was wearing? 

"Who are you?" he barked. "Where's Dean?" 

The man's smile grew. He looked harmless as he ambled over to the stone, but Castiel knew better than to trust appearances. He tensed as the man sat himself down on the stone easily, crossing his legs and whistling softly. 

"Call me Chuck," he said, eyes twinkling. 

"Chuck?" Castiel's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Who are you and what are you doing in my Sanctum?" 

"You built this Sanctum for me," Chuck shrugged. "Didn't you?"

"This was constructed as an Altar for the Sun-" Castiel barked. Realization struck hard and fast and he sucked in a deep breath as Chuck's loud laughter filled the room. 

"Oh," he said weakly, dropping to one knee and bowing low.  "My apologies, Milord," he whispered, feeling the redness of his embarrassed flush fade down to his neck. 

"I told you," Chuck wrinkled his nose in disgust, "Call me Chuck. I don't stand much on formality." 

Castiel nodded, looking up slowly. "If I'm here..." he said slowly, "Then...  _ Dean _ ... did the spell work?" 

Chuck's smile faded. 

"You wish to transfer Marv's life-force to Dean," he said in a tight voice. "Are you sure you wanna do this, Cas?" 

Castiel sighed. "I don't have a choice," he deflected. "It is the only way to save Dean." 

"By killing another?" Chuck asked sharply. "By sacrificing one for the other? Is that the extent of your respect for life, even that of an enemy's?" 

"Marv has already killed so many," Castiel retorted. "Taking his life to save Dean's is justified - Marv is a murderer. Dean is not." 

"And yet, murder is what  _ you're  _ committing when you give him no chance to defend himself," Chuck pointed out. "You're not the ruler of the land - you may pass no judgement on him. If you do this, then your soul will turn dark, even as Lucifer's did. Is that what you want?" 

"Lucifer turned dark for greed and revenge," Castiel murmured. "I do it for love - I accept the responsibility and I will use the First Blade on myself once Dean is saved." 

Chuck paused, eyeing him critically. "You're no martyr, Castiel," he sighed, "I know you. Tell me the truth."

The High Paladin looked away, biting his lower lip, refusing to speak. 

"Tell me," the deity demanded. "You profess to worshipping the Sun, profess to protecting Life in all its forms - is the High Paladin I've chosen so weak? Is this all the respect for Life that exists in Viridia?" 

Castiel still remained silent. 

Chuck stood, shaking his head. "Very well, then," he said sternly. "Viridia and the Witherlands shall remain a broken kingdom, after all. The prophecy shall remain a distant dream - maybe the next High Paladin and Dorcha will unite them, but for now, the lines on the map shall remain black." 

He was about to walk out of the Sanctum when Castiel whispered. 

"I'm afraid," he murmured, "Of living without Dean - of a living the remains of a shattered dream by myself." He whirled around to see Chuck watching him carefully. 

"I am scared," he repeated, "Of facing the fact that I could've had Dean for my own and still, I chose duty over love." 

He'd done it his entire life - Dean had come along, turned his world on its head, and now, he was terrified of going back to his old life. 

He couldn't - he  _ wouldn't _ . Even if that meant dying on Dean, even if that meant he couldn't live that dream of a shared life. 

Chuck's warm gaze met his and Castiel looked away, unable to meet those knowing eyes. 

"I am a coward," he said quietly. "But Dean..." 

The Dorcha was the bravest man he knew - he'd set aside all personal differences and jumped in to rescue the princess who could potentially kill him. 

"On the contrary," Chuck told him softly. "You're one of the bravest paladins to have ever served in my name. And Castiel," he walked forward to pat his shoulder, "I'm proud of you." 

"I-" Castiel fumbled. 

"Now," Chuck finished, "Let's go see about that lover of yours, eh?" 

Castiel blinked, opening his mouth to ask him what he meant, when the deity snapped his fingers. Suddenly, they were standing in a garden, green shrubs and trees sprouting everywhere and blocking pathways. Sunlight bounced off of the leaves and Castiel looked around, realizing that they were inside a glasshouse. 

"What is-" he started, when a familiar, deep voice cut him off. 

"What if he decides to leave me because no one would accept the High Paladin of Viridia shacking up with the Dorcha of the Witherlands?" 

Dean sounded so terrified, so broken, Castiel's own heart ached for him. 

_ This  _ was what he thought, what he believed?  _ This  _ was what he was afraid of? 

_ No longer.  _

"Given that the Dorcha just slayed the evil Regent and pulled the Sword of Life out of the stone,” Castiel spoke up, “I doubt that Viridians will hate him, but even if that happens, it will not change my love for you, Dean.”

Dean whirled around, those beautiful green eyes widening in shock. “Cas,” he breathed. 

Castiel smiled softly. “Hello, Dean,” he greeted. 

“Cas!” 

The paladin couldn’t help the laugh that broke out as the Dorcha raced forward and yanked him close. A warm, wet mouth pressed itself against his own and Castiel opened willingly, wrapping his own arms around Dean’s back, marveling at the familiar, muscular shoulders that flexed beneath his touch.

“You asshole,” Dean’s breath was hot against his face, the man shaking in his grasp. “You fucking  _ idiot _ .” 

“I love you too,” he answered mildly. 

“Don't,” Dean pushed him back lightly, wagging his index finger in Castiel’s face. “Don't you  _ dare  _ \- what the hell were thinking, Cas?! You were gonna turn your magic dark!”

“Dean, I-”

“What if you went all Lucifer on us, Cas?” Dean barked, “What if you hurt Charlie?  _ Sam _ ? An innocent villager?” 

“I wouldn't have,” Castiel protesting, knowing he sounded like a sulky child. “I had a plan.”

Dean paused, eying him carefully and the paladin averted his eyes guiltily. 

“Son of a bitch,” the Dorcha breathed. “You were gonna kill yourself,” he stated flatly. 

Castiel winced, unable to deny him, and Dean drew him close again, burying his face in his shoulders, trembling. 

“ _ Don't _ you dare,” he whispered fiercely. “You don't get to fucking leave, asshole. You  _ don't _ .”

“I would do it for you,” Castiel murmured back, holding him up. “I wouldn't hesitate.” 

“No,” Dean barked, “You promised me we were gonna  _ try  _ \- you don't get to up and leave like that, got it you goddamned son of a bitch?” 

_ Was there anyone, _ Castiel wondered,  _ whose manner of confessing their love was as distinct as Dean’s?  _ He drew back, tenderly cupping the Dorcha’s face and leaning his forehead against his. They shared the same breath for the space of two heartbeats before he spoke. 

“I’m not leaving,” he said. Dean’s fear was a live, angry thing between them, and he was determined to chase it away. Green eyes darted forward to stare into his own and he didn't flinch, opening up to him without hesitation. 

“Not now,” he whispered, “Not ever.” 

A whimper escaped Dean’s lips and he buried his face in Castiel’s clavicle, shaking wordlessly. The paladin swallowed his own fears, closing his eyes, and for a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the soft swishing of the leaves and the bubbling of the water in the fountain. 

“As much as this warms my heart,” the woman’s voice had Castiel looking over Dean’s shoulder to see a dark-haired woman staring at them both in a bored manner. Her clothes were as crisp and lovely as Chuck’s were shabby - she was beautiful. 

“We have more important things to attend to,” she snorted. 

Chuck rolled his eyes, walking forward to gently wrap his arms over her shoulder, drawing her close. She elbowed him in the gut and he oomphed, eyes narrowing at her even as he pulled her long hair in retaliation. 

“Ow, Chuck!” she snapped. “Get your paws off of me, you damn oaf.” 

Castiel blinked at the familiarity of the scene - this was how he and Charlie behaved. This was the same easy camaraderie that Sam and Dean shared. 

_ Who… _

“That’s the Goddess of the Moon?” he whispered incredulously. “Chuck’s sister?” 

Dean snorted. “Amara’s brother is named  _ Chuck _ ? The all knowing  _ Sun _ ?” 

“Oi,” Chuck called, “Just because we’re all powerful deities, that doesn’t mean that’s all we are.” 

The Dorcha blinked in response. “Right,” he sighed. “My bad, of course you wander about in a bathrobe and she slaps you around.” 

“He’s my brother,” Amara snapped. “Do you pass up a chance to wind Sam up?” 

Dean grinned, “Guess not,” he shrugged. 

“Anyway,” Amara said haughtily, “If we may move onto more important matters…” she clapped her hands, and suddenly, a familiar figure was standing between them and the deities. 

Castiel tensed, hands flying to his side, only to find his caduceus and his blade missing. Dean was no less stiff in his arms, and they shared a wary look before turning to the Regent, whose expression was far kinder than they’d ever seen it. 

“Cas,” he sighed, “Dean.” 

“Marv,” Castiel growled, the rage from before lighting up his belly, “What are you doing here?” Instinctively, he pushed Dean behind him, intent on protecting the Dorcha this time around. 

“Relax, Cas,” Chuck intervened. “This is not Metatron, it is Marv.” 

Castiel glanced at him briefly. “What?” he barked. 

The Regent walked forward and Dean sucked in a sharp breath, arms darting out to grab Castiel and pull him close, as though to shield him. But he needn’t have worried; the stout man simply dropped to his knee and bowed his head.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “For releasing me. For saving me.” 

“The fuck is he talkin’ about?” Dean snapped. His voice was tight and controlled, but Castiel detect the undercurrents of anger in it; he felt the same. 

Marv had destroyed hundreds of lives in his mad rampage. Now, he was  _ thanking  _ them for saving him? 

The man remained prostrate in front of them, quiet as a mouse. It was strange, because Castiel had never seen the Regent so… so calm or still. 

“Didn’t you wonder, Dean,” Amara said, “Why your exorcism didn't work on him? Why you and Castiel could both stop him together instead?”

“The Sword,” Castiel breathed in realization, “And the First Blade. In sync - that was what killed the spirit, didn't it?” 

Chuck nodded. “Metatron didn't simply possess Marv as a spirit possess innocent victims - he gave himself  _ willingly  _ over to him.”

“The human so begotten in the end,” Amara continued without a beat, “Was a perfect mix of Life and Death. Because he had given himself so completely to the spirit possessing him, because he consented… only being stabbed with the Sword of Life and the First Blade of Death could kill him.”

“We certainly didn’t know that,” Dean muttered. 

There was a snort and Marv looked up, an expression of shame on his face. “Even so,” he said softly. “I had consented, but I didn’t know what I was getting into. Much as I hated the Witherlands, I didn't expect him to want to utterly decimate them - I couldn't do anything to stop him.” 

“Yeah, well, you chose it,” Dean said harshly. 

Marv nodded. “I did,” he agreed, “And it was my biggest mistakes. Haven’t  _ you  _ made any wrong decisions before, Your Grace?”

There was a slight bitterness in his tone, and in it, Castiel detected the reason he’d given himself up to the malevolent spirit. Marv had only ever been an extra, he recalled, to the King when he was alive, and then when the Queen had taken over. He’d never had any power, any control - and he was terrified of the Witherlands. 

No wonder he’d given in to temptation. 

Sympathy warred with revulsion as the man stood, straightening up. 

“But now,” he announced. “Now I give my consent to a more worthy cause - this time it won’t be a mistake.”

Castiel blinked in confusion. “What-” he began. 

“I, Marv of Viridia, former Regent, do consent to give what remains of my Life to you, Dean Winchester, Dorcha of the Witherlands.”

The words sounded like they were from a distant dream. Both Dean and Castiel went still, sharing a wary look, as the man turned around and bowed to the two deities watching quietly. 

“Will you accept this sacrifice?” he asked, “By the Sun, by the Moon - by Life and Death… this is a choice I make willingly.” 

“I accept,” Chuck said gravely. 

“As do I,” Amara hummed. 

“Wait just a second,” Dean snarled, “The fuck is happenin’-” 

“And with this,” Chuck announced, “With your sacrifice, the taint from the Mark thus vanishes.” 

He waved his arm; Dean yelped as a sudden, angry heat pulsed in his arm. He looked down - the dark taint from the Mark was completely gone. It was now glowing a bright gold - the crimson receded to make it simply a raised, ridged scar. 

“A brother carved the Mark into his skin,” Amara murmured, “for love. With you Dean, that love has returned - the darkness has receded.” 

“But beware,” Chuck warned, “Darkness does not vanish, for the Light cannot exist without it,” he glanced a look at his sister, who had a smug expression on her face, rolling his eyes at her. “Guard well, High Paladin of Viridia, Dorcha of the Witherlands, against prejudice and anger.” 

He paused, looking at them both, and then smiled. “For now, though,” he said, “With the presence of Life and Death together… Viridia shall once again be a full land.” 

“We shall do everything we can,” Castiel vowed. “But what-” 

“Oh begone already,” Amara snorted in a bored manner, waving her hands. 

And the two of them winked out of existence, leaving behind two opposing deities, one light and one dark. 

“Geez, Mar,” Chuck sighed. “You’re so impatient.” 

“And you’re a blazing drama queen,” she shot back. He grinned. “I love you too, sis,” he sing-songed, whisking himself away. 

“Idiot,” she snorted, relaxing against the fountain and melting into the water, dripping away into nothingness. 

The affection within her tone lingered in the trees’ whispers long after she was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 18**

Charlie whimpered into Sam’s shoulders as his strong arms banded about her small waist. In front of them, Dean and Cas lay still and prone, a blue forcefield surrounding them so that neither she nor Sam could get to them. Cas had fallen over the Dorcha a few minutes ago, the Regent gasping before his eyes had closed and he too, had become utterly still. 

Around them, the battle had drifted to a confused stop. Charlie had watched as Hannah and Balthazar had gathered the remaining soldiers together, herding them along with the paladins out of the Sanctum, leaving Sam and Charlie alone with the three prone forms on the ground. Baz had clasped her shoulder tightly, his own expression fraught with sorrow. 

“We’ll get the castle under order, Your Highness,” he’d said softly.

“I should-” she’d begun wearily. But Hannah shook her head and looked pointedly at Castiel, her eyes filling with tears. 

“He needs you,” she said softly and then glanced at a still Sam, who was still intently looking at his brother. “They both do.” 

The two of them had moved from there, gently beginning the process of clearing out the Sanctum and the crowd within. People kept coming in and going, and eventually, Charlie lost track of them, focused on the three glowing bodies in front of her. 

_ They weren’t bodies yet _ , she told herself, biting her lower lip in irritation. Sam had tried to separate them, only to get burned for his effort - whatever was holding them back from the three wasn’t letting go of them easily. 

And so they waited, leaning against one another in exhaustion, Charlie occasionally sniffling into Sam’s shoulder. If she felt his hot tears soak through her hair, she didn’t say anything, tactful enough to pretend that the crimson strands were matted with sweat alone and nothing else. 

_ Cas loved braiding her hair.  _

The thought floated in randomly, and she closed her eyes, calling up a recent memory - it had been her eighteenth birthday, and even though the whole kingdom was showing up to celebrate it with the evening’s dance, she didn’t care just then. There had been only one person she’d wanted to spend the day with. 

She’d thrown his doors open and marched into his room without announcement, ready to yell him awake, only to find him already seated at his desk, glasses falling off his nose in his usual absent-minded manner. She did this often enough that he didn’t even look surprised, instead simply waving his hand over to gesture at his bed in a quiet request for her to sit down. 

“Cas,” she remembered whining, “It’s my birthday, pay attention to me.” 

He’d raised a finger, asking her to be quiet, signing the last of the reports he’d been working on with a flourish, and then turned around, smiling softly at her. Taking in her bedraggled appearance, he raised a dark brow, smirking. 

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he’d remarked, the rough voice sounding concerned. She’d rolled her eyes, pushing back her crow’s nest of a hair and shaken her head at him. 

Sighing, he moved to the bed, settling himself behind her. Reaching over, he’d pulled out a hairbrush from his drawer, and then without asking, gently ran it through her long hair, smoothing out the tangles and wrestling it into submission with practiced ease. He’d braided it carefully, humming under his breath, and she’d relaxed into his grip, dozing on his shoulders for a long time until he’d woken her up with a gentle pat to her cheek. 

He was her brother - her family. 

But now, she neither had her long hair for him to braid nor her brother to do the braiding. He was going to turn her enemy, if he survived whatever magical hoodoo he was under. She was going to lose him forever. 

A great, gulping sob clawed its way out of her chest, and she whimpered into Sam’s shoulders, the tears running freely down her face. Because Cas was  _ gone _ , even if he was still alive, and there was  _ nothing  _ she could do about it - 

“Charlie,” Sam said urgently, pushing her off of him, “Charlie!”

She started in surprise, eyes flying open at the sound of a familiar, soft groan that echoed around the silent Sanctum. She and Sam shared a look of muted excitement, both of them leaning forward as two pairs of eyes - one green and the other blue - popped open at the exact same instance. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grunted. 

Castiel’s hand dropped away from his  arm and he hissed, instinctively raising his own hand to cover the spot where it had just been. Sam’s gaze was drawn to it - the skin there was raised, as though burned, and with a start, he realized that Castiel’s handprint had been seared into Dean’s skin. 

Said paladin was staring at the impression of his hand in surprise too, eyes wide as saucers as he turned an apologetic expression to the Dorcha. 

“Looks like you’ve carved your claim on to my skin, Cas,” Dean grinned before he could say anything. 

“Dean, I-” 

That was as far as he got before Charlie lunged forward, wrapping her arms around the paladin. Both of them went down with a loud  _ oomph _ , but she didn’t care - it was Cas in front of her, her Cas, not some freaky, dark sorcerer who was looking for blood. 

“Cas,” she sobbed, “Cas.” 

“Oh Charlie,” he sighed, wrapping his own arms about her gently and rocking her back and forth like he used to when she’d been just a child, and he a teenager, having climbed into his bed after a nightmare.

But she wasn’t that child anymore. So she pulled back with a sniffle. He frowned at her, opening his mouth to say something, but she didn't give him the chance, instead raising her hand and whacking him across the face.

“You fucking  _ asshole _ ,” she cursed, “Don't you ever do that to me again, do you understand?” 

She sounded desperate and tired, but she didn't care. 

Castiel’s startled expression softened, and he reached out to cup her face, gently thumbing her cheek and wiping away the hot tears coursing down her face. 

“I’m alright,” he whispered, leaning their foreheads together, and tucking a strand of the same hair he braided behind her ear. “I promise you, Charlie, I’m okay.” 

The ugly sob she’d been holding back so long finally escaped and she collapsed against him, crying softly, feeling his heart beat strongly against her ear. A warm hand patted her shoulders softly, and across her, she heard the sound of another loud smack and then Dean’s loud groan of pain and chuckled, her sobs turning into hysterical laughter. 

“By the Goddess, Sam!” Dean protested, “I’m alright.”

“You fucking  _ jerk _ ,” Sam was hissing hoarsely, “Do that again and I swear to the Moon, I will call you back from the Veil and stab you myself.”

“Aw, I love you too bitch,” Dean said cheerfully. Charlie peeked from the circle of Cas’s arms to see the Dorcha pull his brother into a warm hug, and she snorted into Cas’s chest, pawing at his shoulders desperately, still unable to believe they were both here and they were both alright. 

“What happened?” Sam asked gruffly when the brothers finally separated. Charlie also pushed back lightly, watching Cas and Dean share a strange look between them, communicating silently. 

Reaching out, she smacked Cas none too gently on the shoulder. He glared down at her and she smiled innocently. 

“Don't do that,” she told him sternly. “I know you wanna boink your dicks together, but the couple looks… that’s freaky.” 

“Hear that, Cas?” Dean smirked. “We have  _ couple  _ looks.” 

Sam rolled his eyes, cuffing his brother on the shoulder. “What happened, Dean?” he demanded impatiently. “Is Cas…” he peered at the High Paladin, expression turning guarded, “Is his magic…?”

“I’m still me, Sam,” Castiel interrupted. “My magic remains light.” 

“Then how-?” Charlie’s voice trailed away as Dean stood up on shaky feet, offering a hand to Cas, who smiled, inclined his head and took it. Together, they moved to where Marv lay still, eyes vacant, the Sword and the Blade still poking out of him. 

A nervous expression flashed across Dean’s face before it vanished almost instantly. Charlie would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been watching so closely. Before she could question him, he reached forward determinedly, rolling the clearly dead body over to grasp the hilt of the Sword of Life and yanked it out. 

The obscene squelching noise echoed within the chambers of the Sanctum, and out of the corner of her eyes, Charlie saw the few remaining members of the castle suck in a deep breath at the sight of Dean -  _ Dorcha of the Witherlands _ \- holding _ the Sword of Life _ as though it was simply another blade. 

Michael himself couldn't handle it once he’d stuck it into the stone. And yet, here was Dean, not only able to hold it, but who’d also killed Metatron with it. 

But he hadn’t done it alone - Charlie was reminded of that as the Dorcha smiled at Castiel tenderly. The High Paladin returned the smile, reaching out to roll Marv back, his fingers closing over the hilt of the First Blade, pulling it out easily, holding it up for all to see. 

_ Life, _ Charlie thought,  _ and Death. Two sides of the same coin.  _

Her eyes pricked with tears and she knew it - this was the beginning of something new, a new start, with old rivalries put to rest, with old memories laid to sleep at last. Charlie was determined to see the borders collapse completely, to see those lines on Viridia’s maps be erased. 

“For you, Your Grace,” Dean held the Sword out for Cas to take. He inclined his head, eyes blazing at his lover, and held out the First Blade with his other hand for Dean. 

“And for you, Milord,” his voice was teasing, and Charlie blinked - she’d rarely  seen him so carefree and happy. 

It brought a smile to her own face as the two men exchanged their blades, leaning in to share a quick kiss, right there in front of all to see. 

She started back in surprise when both men whirled around, bowing to her at the same time, handing two blades to her unison. 

“For you, Princess,” Dean murmured, “As Dorcha of the Witherlands, I swear fealty to you - will you accept the Fallen as part of Viridia once more?”

Despite the offer, his expression was guarded, as though a part of him still expected her to deny the claim, even after all the Fallen had sacrificed. She smiled gently, offering him a slow nod. 

“I do, Your Grace,” she said formally. 

“And you already have my loyalty, Your Highness,” Cas added. “If I may ask…” he stole a shy glance at Dean, “For your permission to marry the man I love.”

Charlie almost laughed out loud at Dean’s gobsmacked expression, even as the Dorcha’s mouth fell open. 

“That is,” Castiel smiled at Dean, “If you will have me, Dean.” 

“Fuck, Cas,” he whispered hoarsely, “Of course, you goddamned dork.”

They turned back to Charlie, who did giggle this time. “Idiots,” she snorted at the expectant, nervous expressions on their faces. “Who am I to stand in the way of true loooovee?” she sing-songed. 

Sam sighed next to them, massaging his temples, and she was reminded that he’d been tortured in the past few days, weakened and tired. Cas and Dean still held their blades out to her, a token of their loyalty, and she swallowed hard, the mirth fading from her face as she considered them. 

The First Blade and the Sword of Life… both were covered in blood, but that was fitting in a way - too much blood had been split for this moment. She couldn’t turn her back on all the lives lost, both Viridian and Fallen, from her own mother to the many of Dean’s people who’d starved to death. 

_ Every one of them would be honored, _ she vowed, reaching out solemnly to grab both blades and accept them. For Life, she mused, could not exist where there was no Death. And Death only began where Life ended. 

“I accept your fealty,” she said, her voice ringing out clearly. “Both of you - Viridia needs her High Paladin, and his mate, the Dorcha. Rise, both of you.” 

For a moment, their personal relationships faded, and Charlie was queen, the weight of the station bearing down on her, alone and proud as she stood. 

And then they looked up, no longer her subjects but family, similar grins on both their faces. Charlie’s own lips curved into a wide smile - Dean, she realized, and Sam too, were as much family as Cas was. 

“Now,” Sam spoke up, “Can someone please tell me what the fuck happened?” 

Dean grinned, winking at Charlie’s snort. “Grab me a chair and some food, Sammy!” he slapped his brother’s back, “For have we got a story to tell you!” 

*-*-*

“Will you stop fidgeting with your robes, boy?” Ellen snorted. 

Dean glanced at her from his spot, both of them waiting for the Sanctum doors to be opened. The crowd gathered around them were fidgeting just as much, a mix of both Viridian and Fallen and the Dorcha felt warmth tingle down his spine as he caught sight of the younger ones playing together. 

In the six months it had been since the whole debacle, Viridia had reopened borders and started trade with the Witherlands again. But Charlie hadn’t stopped there - she’d insisted that Dean be her personal advisor along with Cas. The two of them would be her second-in-command, sharing equal power and station behind the Crown of the whole land. Viridia and the Witherlands would be one country again - so long as the Fallen agreed to it. 

Understandably, a number of them had been very hesitant. Despite wanting trade reopened, few of his people actually wanted to return to Viridia or live under their sovereign. It had taken Sam and Dean months to convince them that Charlie had no plans to interfere in the way things functioned - the Witherland Council would retain its democratic power when it came to governing the Fallen. 

Dean had traveled back and forth between the two lands, the borders now no longer policed or shut down. It wasn’t surprising, however, that the inherent distrust and suspicion continued between the two peoples. What Dean hadn’t expected was how welcoming the Viridians had been of him - all those who’d been in the Sanctum with them had spread tales of how the Dorcha of the Witherlands had fought the evil Regent to protect them and then slain him with the help of the Sword of Life itself. 

If the Sword could be wielded by Dean - just as the High Paladin wielded the First Blade of Death - then certainly, he wasn’t evil. And with his endorsement, perhaps, his people wouldn't be either.

That was the general perception amongst the Viridians anyway. It wasn’t like everything was perfect - centuries of hostility wasn’t gonna fade in a few months, no matter how hard he, Sam, Charlie and Cas tried. 

But their efforts were making visible progress. With the borders reopened, a number of the Fallen had taken to Viridian schools, even as many of the Viridian scientists had moved to the Witherlands to work with Eileen and her research. Even if the elder generation eyed one another with suspicion, the exchange of cultural knowledge amongst the younger ones was promising - they were eager to learn, their prejudices not as strong as their parents. 

It warmed his heart to watch. 

The paladins and the soldiers in league with Marv had all been interrogated - those who’d simply followed orders, Charlie had let go, insisting that this was their duty. Dean agreed; but those that had been in league with him, who’d known of his agenda, they’d had to figure out what to do with. 

Technically, Charlie wasn’t supposed to be crowned till she turned twenty, which was why there was a Regent in the first place. But with him gone, the most powerful authority in the land was Cas, as the High Paladin. The situation, however, was tricky; the paladins were independent of the Crown, their duty to that of the Altar and the Sun more than it was to the ruler. 

Cas had wanted to crown Charlie right away, install her on the throne. It was the princess herself who’d been hesitant - the people weren’t going to accept an abrupt law change that easily, she’d warned them. 

Dean suspected it had much more to do with her guilt over Samandriel’s death and the trauma of the aftermath. None of them had escaped that Sanctum untouched - he was still waking up from nightmares of watching Cas go dark, ready to stab everyone he loved with the blade Marv had carried. 

Looking for some inspiration, they’d raided the Regent’s former chambers soon after the judgement had passed. And that was when they’d come across the old letter, an old scroll left behind by none other than Queen Naomi herself - she had had the prophecy told to her personally. 

She’d just never realized that the threat that Viridia would face would be her own brother again - in a way, things had come full circle. The redheaded queen had once cut down her greatest enemy, and now, Charlie would too. 

The letter legitimized Charlie’s rule, Castiel had insisted, the prophecy was not something the people could deny. 

So they’d announced the early coronation - as both Dean and Cas had suspected, the people weren’t so much irritated by the ruling as they were excited. Charlie was a well-loved ruler even if she didn’t realize it. 

Power secured, she’d decided to show those allied with Marv mercy - executing them wouldn’t be to her advantage. She wanted to show Viridians the way to be kind and to accept differences, not persecute them for it. So, she’d ordered that all those Marv had taken into confidence be put through the harshest of purity rituals and then banished to lands beyond the oceans. They would be executed on sight if they ever showed their faces in Viridia again. 

Dean couldn't say that he approved of such kindness, but maybe that’s what they all needed - someone to show them when to show mercy and when to be harsh. 

“Stop fidgeting!” Ellen hissed, slapping his hands away from the spot on his breeches where the thread itched. 

Fuck, but it was  _ hot  _ in Viridia. He didn’t think he was ever gonna get used to the heat here. Sighing, he pulled his hand away, clenching and unclenching his fists, before settling his palms over the two blades that hung on either side of his hip. On his right was the First Blade, cleaned and returned to its original state, the Mark glowing golden next to it. On his left hung his usual second sword, to be used in case the Blade was inaccessible - though he didn't see any instance of that happening here. 

“Restless, are you, my love?” 

Cas’s amused voice echoed in his ear and Dean yelped, the irritated retort dying on his lips when he caught sight of the High Paladin. 

Moon’s cycle… he was fucking _ gorgeous.  _

The long robes covered a pair of tight-fitting breeches, showcasing the shapely thighs. His shirt was a deep, warm blue, drawing attention to his eyes even more than usual. The golden circlet on his brow was telling - Cas rarely wore it, complaining about how cumbersome it was. But right now, the dark hair fell over it in a rougish manner, and suddenly, Dean wanted to drag him back to his chambers with only that on. 

The Sword of Life hung from his left side, his caduceus on his right. There had been no question of whether the Sword would go back to the stone or not - Michael had used the Sword to protect the land, and Castiel could do no less, especially not after being blessed by the Sun God himself. 

All in all, he cut quite the dashing figure like this. Dean’s throat went dry, his eyes raking down Castiel’s entire body, his heart thudding in his chest and his breath becoming dangerously short. As he looked up, catching his lover’s eyes, he smirked - Cas was doing his own once over, and judging from the expression on his face, the paladin  _ definitely  _ approved. 

Dean himself wasn’t dressed all that differently. His robes were similar to Cas’s, only where the paladin’s was blue and silver, he was wrapped up in red and gold. His own crown hung heavy on his head, his mud-colored hair pushed back to keep it in place. 

“Hey babe,” he drawled. “Lookin’ good.” 

Castiel answered his smirk, reaching over to draw him close, breathing hot against his mouth. Unnoticed by the crowd, his hands moved down Dean’s front, hovering over his crotch and the Dorcha held back a soft groan. But Castiel was nothing if not a tease; he leaned in to press an impossibly soft kiss against Dean’s clavicle, refusing to do anythimg more than that. 

“Asshole,” he sighed. Castiel grinned, moving away to offer Ellen a low, short bow. 

“Hello, Ellen,” he said and proceeded to engage the older woman in happy conversation which Dean completely ignored in favor of staring at his fiance’s ass. 

So, shoot him - the man had the best ass in all the land. Why wouldn't he wanna stare at it? 

Especially since he was yet to see it completely bare. 

Moaning at his own self-imposed ban, he threw his head back, staring at the ceiling. Cas had been all gung-ho about fucking the day they both came back from the Glasshouse of Eden, but Dean had stopped him. 

“This is special, Cas,” he’d murmured, “You. Me…  _ us _ .” 

The paladin had frowned, nodding, but leaned in to kiss him again - they were both half-naked in his chambers, finally left to their own devices after explaining the truth. Dean had groaned, wanting nothing more than to sink into the warm, naked, tanned torso in front of him, but he rubbed those muscled shoulders and thought hungrily of the wongs that were tattooed on the back. 

“I’d…” he faltered, and Cas had looked into his eyes, smiling enouragingly. “I want this to be special,” he’d finished, feeling like a maiden in her first bloom, shy and silly at the same time. “We should wait.” 

Castiel’s expression had turned tender, and Dean had closed his eyes, unable to see so much affection directed at him - what had he done to deserve it? 

But the paladin had agreed, and now, here they were, three months later, at Charlie’s coronation ceremony, still waiting. 

Tomorrow, they would get married - they would officially be husbands. And then, Dean could finally bite that delicious ass, bury himself in it and never resurface. 

Or he could make Cas do it to himself instead; he had no preference as long as they could both spend the next forty-eight hours in private, under the sheets, naked skin sliding against one another. Both of them would have liked to take a longer period for themselves, go on a proper honeymoon, but their stations wouldn't allow that. 

Because with Charlie officially being crowned today, they would both be taking their places as High Paladin and Dorcha by her side. She was declaring the status of Dorcha an official one within Viridian beauracuracy as much as it was part of the Witherlands - Dean’s jaw had dropped when she’d first outlined her plan. 

But with the new position came new responsibilities. Dean was official ambassador to the Witherlands; he was still their ruler, still the Lord, but now, he would be allied to the Queen as well. He and Cas would split their time equally between the two places. Sam was going to permenantly stay in the Witherlands to take care of day-to-day business with Eileen and the Council in Dean’s place. 

“It is time,” Hannah’s cool voice startled all of them. 

Castiel smiled at his second-in-command, nodding at her. “Thank you, Hannah,” he said, breathing in deeply before he turned to Dean and offered a hand. 

“Shall we?” he gestured to the door. 

Dean nodded, taking the proferred hand and leading him to the front of the crowd. The mix of Viridians and the Fallen that stood there, chatting and gossiping, fell silent now, watching the two of them carefully. 

Castiel let go of Dean’s hand to pull his caduceus out with his left hand and held it up. Dean unsheathed the First Blade and pricked his finger with it, letting a single drop of blood color the tip of the bone crimson. Out of the corner of his eyes, he observed some expressions of discomfort, primarily on elder Viridians’ faces, but there was no open protest.

Together, the High Paladin and the Dorcha raised their hands, Dean holding the Blade with his left hand even as Castiel held his caduceus with his right. Leaning forward, they traced the sigil for open and protect in unison, stepping back. 

Their magic sizzled between them, a livewire of sensation, and Dean shivered from it, heat pooling in his belly. The Mark pulsed once, twice, and then a third time as though in triumph, and he rolled his eyes at it, sighing as Cas’s hand found his again. 

A loud creak resounded within the room as the big oak doors swung open, revealing the newly refurbished and rebuilt Sanctum. Given that the Sword of Life no longer rested there, Castiel had pondered the use of the space, arguing with Charlie about its existence until both had agreed that they’d use it for important, ceremonial moments such as this one. 

Charlie, Sam - and Eileen later, because Sam wasn’t gonna hide anything from her, and because Cas wanted to talk to her about the life-transferring spell - were the only ones who knew the whole story. Everyone else believed that Dean and Cas had killed the Regent together, and the latter had saved the former with his own magic when he’d been injured in the process. With what the few soldiers and paladins had seen, that was enough to convince them all that the Sanctum was still sacred and magical, because even someone as evil as Metatron hadn’t been able to destroy it. 

Whether or not that was true, Dean had certainly agreed that the space itself remained, somehow, different. Even if the Sword no longer rested here, the Sanctum - protected for centuries by a series of High Paladins, who’d mediated and filled it with positive energy - was still sacred. It couldn't simply be left open publicly, but it needed a purpose. So Castiel and Charlie had decided to repurpose it for special occassions. 

And what was more special than crowning the new Queen of Viridia? 

Dean shared a quick look with Cas as they walked down together, heading straight for the stone which still stood in the far end of the room, now a ceremonial symbol of all that they were. Behind them, they heard the crowd shuffle in after, whispers and soft words exchanged as most of the townspeople entered the Sanctum for the first time in their lives. 

_ Cas looked uneasy,  _ Dean noted, knowing this was the first time he’d let others into what was, essentially, his area to protect. He’d been in charge of this place for years, taught that he was, under no circumstance, to let others into it. No wonder he was uncomfortable. 

The Dorcha leaned in close to his fiance and twined their fingers together. 

“Steady, Cas,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.” 

The High Paladin shot him a grateful look, squeezing his hands back before turning to the gathered crowd to address them. 

“Today,” he began, “We are gathered here to crown ourselves a new queen.” he paused, meeting the eyes of all those that mattered individually - Sam and Eileen were standing at the very front, along with Balthazar. An empty space stood where Samandriel would be; Missouri had refused to attend, stating that she was done with the castle and it occupants for life, so there was another empty space next to it as well.  

Dean didn't begrduge her her pain - she had lost everything for them. But the empty space hurt Cas, he could see, so he rubbed his thumb back and forth against the paladin’s skin. Cas didn't respond outwardly, but Dean felt his magic warm slowly, Cas’s essence mixing with his own without hesitation. 

“A leader is one who would bleed for her people,” Cas continued, “Who will sacrifice her everything without complaint or hesitation, who will be the first to charge into battle and the last to retreat from it. A land that has such a land is a fortunate land indeed.” 

“We are fortunate,” Dean spoke up, voice deliberate and loud, “That Viridia - and the Witherlands, now - have a leader, who will not only do these things in the future, but has  _ already  _ done them.”

“She has protected her people, but more importantly,” he swallowed, because this was a truth that would now begin a new age, “She has shown willingness to welcome change and reach out to those long thought to be lost forever. For the good of her people, she has shown herself capable of doing what she must, no matter what the cost.” 

“And so,” Castiel glances at him quickly, before turning back to the waiting crowd, “Today, we shall crown her as our Queen, replace the ill-begotten regency that has long held sway over Viridia - I call thee forth, Charlie Bradbury!” 

Minstrels pulled at harp strings and soft music echoed within the Sanctum. The crowd parted, and in between them, walking with one hand on the sword she had hanging on her hip - Cas’s old, second sword, Dean saw with a grin - Charlie smiled. She paused to gently shake hands with all those reaching out to her, patient and wise beyond her years, and for a moment, the Dorcha was overcome with affection for the almost nineteen year old. 

It hadn’t taken him very long to love her the way Cas himself did - her enthusiasm, warmth and affection were a force to be reckoned with. He watched with a growing smile as she bent down to hug little ones, to greet many of the older men and women, not once differentiating between the Fallen or Viridians. 

Cas seemed to share his feelings - their link was ablaze with a sense of pride and warmth, a feeling Dean had only ever associated with Sam and sometimes Jo. 

Given that practically everyone loved Charlie, it was few minutes before she stood in front of Dean and Castiel, head bowed. Her hair - finally beginning to grow again - had been let loose for this occasion, bounding over her pale neck and shoulders in soft curls. Her robes were a bright, rich green, complimenting her flaming hair beautifully, hugging her small, curvy frame. She wore no jewellery except two bracelets on either hand - one bearing the insignia of Virida, the other the Mark to represent the Witherlands.  All in all, she cut a regal figure, almost ethereal in her appearance. 

“Do you, Charlie Bradbury,” Castiel began, “Accept the power of the Crown and the responsibility that comes with it?” 

“I do,” she said, her voice confident and clear. 

“Do you promise to provide for your people, to feed and clothe them, to provide them with all that they may require?” Dean spoke up. This, in particular, was a driving force for the Dorcha - the people of the Witherlands had starved far too long. 

“I do,” she looked up the slightest fraction, her eyes meeting his own - the conviction in them was reassuring and he breathed out slowly. 

“Do you,” it was Cas’s turn again, “swear to uphold the laws of Viridia, understanding that even as the Crown, you are not exempt to them?” 

“I do,” she replied. 

“And,” Dean said finally, “Do you swear to treat all equally and fairly under the law, no matter the personal cost to you?” 

“I do.” 

“Then,” Castiel announced. “As is my right as the High Paladin, I crown thee Queen Charlie of Viridia.” 

He paused, falling silent. The crowd’s eyes turned to Dean as one, as though waiting with bated breath for his verdict. 

They needen’t have worried - there was no one else worthier in Dean’s opinon.

“As do I,” he declared, “As is the right of the Dorcha of the Witherlands.”

Castiel gestured for the young girl standing by the side, holding a small cushion with the crown resting on it. It was a simple circlet, newly made - Charlie had insisted on it, refusing to wear the old one. 

“That thing’s only ever been for Viridia,” she’d stated angrily. “I don’t want the Crown to be a symbol of the divide.” 

So Balthazar had taken to the forges with the smiths and had had a new crown carved out of gold and silver. The design of it was simple and beautiful, small vines chasing one another, even as tiny leaves poked out from between them, a single blooming bud sitting in the very front. 

Castiel picked this crown from the cushion, nodding at the female squire - another novelty,  Dean marveled, under Charlie’s rule. She curtseyed and then smiled shyly, retreating to her former position. 

The High Paladin faced Dean, who reached for him. Their hands brushed together and together, as the two most powerful entities in the land separate from the Crown, they brought the circlet down and placed atop a crimson head. 

“We crown thee, Charlie Bradbury,” they said in unison. “Rise now and take charge - Your Majesty.” 

She raised her head, tears brimming in her beautiful eyes, and Castiel leaned forward to quickly thumb her cheek, just for a second her beloved elder brother, before pulling back. She nodded, sucking in a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she stood, turning to face her people, her face shining. 

“I present to you,” Dean announced, “Your new Queen.” 

“Long live Queen Charlie!” Castiel cried. 

The crowd broke out into thunderous applause and cheers, people stomping over the ground in their excitement. Charlie raised her arms out, as though offering them all a hug, and the crowd took the invitation for what it was. 

“She’s done it now,” Dean grumbled, as the throngs of people converged upon them, all of them eager to touch and pet their new queen. 

Their link trilling with amusement, Castiel tilted his head in acknowledgement, winking at him before turning to face the crowd himself. 

_ Oh well, _ Dean allowed himself a small smile,  _ why the heck not.  _


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kid you not, this is 2.5k of pure, filthy smut. Feel free to skip if you don't like. I was gonna put the smut up earlier initially, but my brain was all symmetry and cyclical work, and who am I to deny the Brain? XD

**Epilogue**

A single drop of sweat rolled down the side of Dean's face, tickling his skin. He sucked in a sharp breath, arching his back  only to be held short by the ropes that bound him. He muttered a loud curse, biting his lower lip in consternation. 

The sound of a low, rasping laugh echoed from across the room and Dean's eyes flew to meet an amused blue gaze. 

"Asshole," he groaned, and Cas's chuckle grew louder. His hand, glowing a soft blue-green, stroked his own cock lazily, and Dean's entire body jerked in response. The link between them was wide open, their magics intertwined together so closely, Dean couldn't pick who was the blue and who was the green. 

Goddamn, using magic in their lovemaking was the best damned idea they'd ever had. 

"You've got quite the mouth on you, love," Cas muttered, a wicked smile curving his lips. "I'm going to have to punish you." 

"Maybe that's what I want," Dean retorted. A moment later, he let out a soft cry as Cas's hand moved up to pinch his own nipple, the echoes of it causing the Dorcha to breathe heavily. 

"Well, then who am I to deny you?" Cas said. He unfolded himself from the chair he'd been sitting on, walking across the room to pull out their toybox from the drawer they kept it in. A ripple of magic flashed across their bond as he unlocked it - no one except the two of them would be able to. His back was turned to Dean, who hungrily traced the long wings tattooed over those muscled shoulders and back. 

His mind wandered back to the first time he'd seen those black wings, beautiful and glittering on a tanned back, in the light of a fire in the Witherlands. It'd been two years since then and he'd lost count of the number of times he'd traced every single feather with his own tongue and fingers, but the sight of the wings still set a low fire swooping in his belly. Cas particularly enjoyed those times when Dean was panting and gasping beneath him, hands tied so he couldn't scratch his nails down those wings - the paladin was nothing if not quietly dominant in bed. 

Dean, for all his bluster, loved to submit, loved to be taken apart piece by piece, and then put back together. That wasn't to say he didn't like taking control sometimes, but giving in to Cas was a heady feeling all on its own, a release that he often craved when the world outside became too much, when being the Dorcha was too much responsibility. 

And it often was - negotiating on behalf of a people who'd been discriminated against for centuries, who'd lost their lives to hatred and anger wasn't an easy task. Add to that the fact that diplomacy was  _ not  _ his strongest suit, it meant that sometimes he needed to rip, to shred and to destroy something and more often than not, that something tended to be himself. That was when Cas stepped in, absolving him of any responsibility - he couldn't meet the world's every need, but in here, in their bedchamber, he didn't have to do anything but what  _ Cas  _ wanted. 

Like right now... Dean was tied to the bedpost with a length of magic rope, tight enough that he wasn't going to slip out of them, but spelled to not cut into skin too harshly. His legs were tied down as well, spreading him eagled, cock on proud display as it curved over his belly, dripping precome across his skin. The only light in the room was the fire crackling away merrily in the corner, casting a golden tint to their sweaty skin - they'd already been playing for close to an hour and Dean was going to go mad if Cas didn't let him come soon. 

As though sensing his impatience - with their link so open, he just might have, Dean wouldn't put it past him - Cas turned around, that wicked grin firmly in place. Dean's eyes were drawn to the toy he'd pulled out of the box and he groaned, head falling back, knowing he was in for a long night. 

"Cas," he licked his lips, "You're gonna kill me."

Cas shrugged. "You asked for it, beloved." 

Dean flushed at the endearment; no matter how many times Cas used it, each time felt like the first, simply because there was so much goddamned earnestness in his voice. 

"But," Cas continued, walking across the room, back towards Dean, "I'm not stopping with this." 

Dean frowned as he traced his thumb down the length of the wooden cock he held, carved as it was with the sigils for  _ vibration  _ and  _ heat _ . The dildo had served them well on more than one occasion, but Cas's eyes were glowing with wicked intent, indicating that tonight was going to be different. 

"What-" 

Dean yelped as Cas's caduceus traced quick patterns into the air, his spell turning the Dorcha on to his back. His cock slapped against the mattress and he groaned as pleasure sparked across his spine, resisting the urge to rub himself against the soft roughness of the bed thread. 

"Cas," he snapped. "Will you get on with-" 

"My, my," the paladin taunted, "So impatient. You're really looking for a punishment tonight, aren't you?"

Dean sensed it barely a second before the slap landed across his ass, their link glowing bright with anticipation and amusement. An undignified yelp escaped his lips and he moaned in response, waggling his hips shamelessly to present his ass to Cas, whose spell had turned him over, arms tied behind his shoulders and his ankles still bound together. 

He was completely at Cas's mercy like this - the vulnerability of it, the warmth floating across their bond... it made Dean's heart race uncontrollably, even as he tensed in anticipation of the next blow. 

Was Cas going to spank him and then fuck him? The combination of pleasure and pain was enough to get him off most days. 

He opened his mouth to ask him to bloody get on with already, when the feeling of a ghostly cock over his rim had him jerking back. 

A second slap fell on his rump, landing directly on his left asscheek and Dean groaned. 

"Stay still," Cas's breathing was labored despite his command. 

Snorting in response, Dean nevertheless stilled, forcing himself to be calm - Cas was here, and he could trust him to give Dean what he needed. 

His toes curled in response as sudden, wet heat tingled across his ass - but the sensation was muted, more of an echo than an actual feeling. It continued, just enough to arouse and tease him until he was leaking steadily into the sheets - his vision was blocked and he couldn't see anything either, heightening his anticipation. 

"O-0h," Cas panted softly, _ "Dean." _

Dean opened his mouth to demand what the hell was happening when his entire back arched, the ghostly sensation of a thick, wooden cock suddenly shoving itself inside him. His hole clenched in response and he was surprised to feel nothing but air.

Realization struck hard and fast - Cas was fucking  _ himself  _ with the wooden dildo, right behind Dean, feeding the sensations back to the Dorcha through their magical bond. 

Dean whimpered as the ghostly cock dragged across his prostate; it was too muted a sensation to do anything but arouse, and Cas knew it, the bastard. 

"Fuck, Cas," he panted, "Fuck," his hips twitched helplessly against the bed, his own hard cock desperately seeking some friction. 

"I told you to be still," Cas said sternly. 

A third slap fell across his ass and Dean yelped - Cas wasn't just gonna fuck himself with the dildo, he was gonna spank Dean while he did it. 

Before he could offer him another snarky retort, a fourth blow fell, this time right across the crack of his ass, close to his lubed, open hole, and Dean whimpered again. 

"Cas," he babbled, "Cas-" 

Bare, muted heat slid across his insides, teasing his prostate, and Dean moaned in frustration, knowing that Cas had activated the sigils on the wooden dildo. It vibrated across his skin, heating him from the inside out. Cas's blows were falling more irregularly, the pattern off as he neared his own climax, and Dean wanted to feel that, feel the hot splash of his come across his own back. 

"Cas," he whimpered, "Babe, please-"

"What do you need, Dean?" Cas muttered, one hand tracing the redness of Dean's ass, which was burning hot by now. "Tell me, beloved."

"You, Cas," Dean gasped, "just you, always." 

The ghostly sensation disappeared and the sound of the dildo hitting the floor echoed within the room. Dean almost cried, but a moment later, he was arching back as Cas grabbed him and held him close. 

"You have me," the rough voice mumbled into his ear. 

"Fuck me," he challenged. The expected slap was just as harsh as he wanted it to be, and Dean opened easily under Cas's touch, the paladin's dick slipping inside him with no hesitation. 

He breathed out softly, enjoying the feeling of Cas finally in him. But Cas wasn't having any of it - he pulled back almost instantly, leaving Dean whining in response. A quick pinch to his thigh had him silenced and then Cas was fucking him, hard and fast, hands holding the Dorcha down firmly. 

"Come for me," Cas whispered, the tenderness of his voice at odds with the harsh, almost feral way he was pounding into Dean. "Come, beloved." 

He reached around Dean's waist to jerk his leaking cock in a rhythm that was purposefully slow in comparison to the fast fucking and Dean bowed into him, giving himself completely to the warmth and the affection flashing across their open link. 

Cas's own pleasure was heightening his - helpless to do anything and held back by the paladin's hard touch, Dean closed his eyes, feeling the orgasm tingle across his spine. Come splashed across Cas's hand, coating it in white wetness, but he didn't stop, now mindless to find his own pleasure. 

Tears pricked the corner of Dean's eyes from the oversensitivity as Cas continue to stroke him, pounding into him from behind. 

"Come for me," he muttered, clenching deliberately around Cas. "Come on, babe." 

His vision blanked out and there was nothing but sensation for a long, hot moment - Cas came hard and fast into his ass, the wetness dripping across his thighs, their mental link a feedback loop of sex and warmth. 

They both fell to the bed in a tangled heap, the paladin slipping out. They didn't say anything, content to just lie there until their heartbeats slowed and their breathing returned to normal, their minds utterly open and no walls between them. 

"I love you," Cas was the one to finally break the silence. "So much." 

Dean smiled, raising his hands. Cas quickly reached across the bed to grab his caduceus, and a moment later, he was unbound and free, their bed and bodies also cleaned off come and the bodily fluids.  _ Magic was awesome, _ he reflected, stretching luxuriously out, wrapping his limbs over Cas, pulling him close. The paladin went willingly, allowing Dean to set the parameters of his aftercare, running his hand through Dean's golden hair, pressing soft kisses to his clavicle. 

"I love you too, dork," he said fondly. 

Cas grabbed at his arms, inspecting them gently, rubbing blood circulation back into his wrists. The rope may not have caused lasting damage and he may have spelled it away, but being bound for so long definitely had after effects - Cas was always conscientious about those things, kissing Dean's hands softly. 

"Any stiffness?" he asked quietly. "Any pain?" 

Dean shook his head, sighing quietly. "I'm fine," he said. "You were perfect." 

Cas smiled, drawing him close and spooning him from behind. Dean didn't protest the change in position - he'd never admit it, but the feeling of Cas looming large over him and holding him close was one of the best things ever. 

"Good," he murmured in the Dorcha's ear, twining their fingers together. The glint of his gold ring brought a soft smile to Dean's lips - he pulled the hand up further, kissing his husband's fingers and felt Cas's answering amusement light up their link. 

"Because I doubt we're gonna get more chances to do this for a while yet," Cas sighed. 

Dean paused at the reminder, heart swelling up at the thought. Sure, it would suck to give up sex - and kinky sex - for a while, but they were getting so much more in the bargain. 

Because tomorrow, they were going to pick up their daughter from the healers. Offspring of a Viridian and Fallen coupling, she'd been left abandoned at the edge of town, no trace of her parents or her family. The only indication of her heritage was a scroll left rolled up in the basket in which she'd been laid - a letter from a dying mother to her daughter. 

The paladins who'd been on patrol two days ago had found the screaming infant. Closer to the Witherland side of the land, it was biting cold - _ it was a wonder that she'd survived at all, _ Dean mused, feeling the quiet rage pop up again. When Cas had heard of the child, he'd looked at Dean; they'd been looking into adoption the past few months, wanting to expand their family, and now, they had a chance to. 

The girl had no family, no parents - the letter said that her dad had been killed by the mother's Viridian family because her family couldn't stand their daughter to be sullied by a Fallen man. The mother had decided to take her own life because she had nothing left, but begged whoever found her daughter to raise her well. 

It was these things that Dean fought against in the world outside - the barriers of the border may have come down, but discrimination and racism was still rampant within both lands, a consequence of centuries of hatred and hostility. But Cas and he were both hoping that this little girl would be different - perhaps if the Viridians and the Fallen saw their High Paladin and Dorcha raising a girl of mixed heritage with nothing but love, then things could possibly change. 

"Claire," Dean murmured. "We're naming her Claire." 

Cas hummed his agreement, curling around Dean closer and pulling him tight against his chest. 

Sleep warm with affection, Dean whispered the name of his daughter one more time. 

"Claire... Claire." 

_ She'd be kickass, _ he thought sleepily. She'd learn how to handle a sword from her dads and her Auntie Charlie, set Auntie Eileen and Uncle Sam's lab on fire, chase Uncle Baz around the castle and drive her Grandma Ellen up the wall. 

Dean drifted to sleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
